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A DEBT OF HONOUR 


BY 

MABEL COLLINS 

AUTHOR OF 

“ THE CONFESSIONS OF A WOMAN.'* ‘ PHE IDYLL OF THE WHITE 
LOTUS,” “ THE PRETTIEST WOMAN IN WARSAW,” ETC. 


NEW YORK 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 


150 WORTH STREET 


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A DEBT OF HONOUR 





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A DEBT OF HONOUR 


MABEL iCOLLINS} CctV- 

AUTHOR OF 

“THE CONFESSIONS OF A WOMAN,’' “THE IDYLL OF THE WHITE 
LOTUS,” “THE PRETTIEST WOMAN IN WARSAW,” ETC. 



.< 


NEW YORK 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 

150 WORTH STREET 





, Copyright/ iSgi, 

BY 

UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY 
All Rights Reserved, 






A DEBT OF HONODE. 


j I. 

Squire Falconer lived in one of the beautiful 
j old Elizabethan houses that ornament our country; 
' red brick, solid, warm, and massive. Everything 
in it and about it spoke of comfort and content, 
from the twittering birds on the eaves to the 
Squire’s wife, still beautiful, though faded and 
growing aged. She was always called Lady Agnes; 
this was her own title. When the Squire was a 
young man he was wonderfully lucky, and might 
have won the hand of many a fair maid of noble 
family. For he was very handsome, with a great 
charm of manner and a sweet gift of speech that 
won the ear. He had a power of fascination that 
few women could resist ; and, indeed, none had 
|i been proved to do so. He was a good match, even 
for one who ranked above him, for the Falconers 


6 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


were a fine old family, and their estates were wide 
and in excellent order, the rent-roll drawn from 
them being large enough to support twice the state 
and dignity in which they lived. But their habits 
were of the old-fashioned order, and all the Fal- 
coners preferred to live in the quaint, comfortable 
red house, to building a stately pile. Thus many 
a noble party had been entertained in its dark 
oak-panelled rooms ; and when Lady Agnes came 
as the lovely bride it was well known that she 
might have taken that place — ^yes, and even love- 
lier. But Agnes had the young Squire’s heart all 
to herself, and kept it for her own. She came of 
a wild, hot-blooded family, and her brilliance and 
vivacity made the old house a paradise to her hus- 
band. She was a gay creature, thoughtless, reck- 
less, careless ; but full of love and passion. The 
Squire had an almost Puritanical strain in him, 
from his sober forefathers, but there was the full 
power of appreciation for this brilliant woman, 
though he sorely disapproved of her reckless 
brotliers. This last was rather a trial to Lady 
Agnes, for she would dearly have loved to have 
her own people about her. But they set the whole 
place on fire — disturbed and disorganised the 
household with midnight revels, distracted the 


7 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 

village with making love to the pretty maidens, 
and wore out the horses in the stables with hard 
riding. Lady Agnes found their visits rather a 
trial, though she secretly was amused herself, be- 
cause her dear husband, so handsome and so grave, 
was worried by the ribaldry and disorder. So she 
saw less and less of her two brothers, whom she 
had.deaiiy loved when all . had been children to- 
gether; and one shot, himself when he had lost 
his fortune over tho card- table, and the other^died 
of drink. When her parents died. Lady Agnes 
had all the estates and property, and was very 
rich, for she and the two boys had been the only 
children. These bereavements— some so sad and 
disgraceful— took away from her the. gaiety of her 
youth; and when her second child, Bertha, could 
first remember her she had lost the brightness from 
her face, though its sweetness still remained. 

Lady Agnes had two children— Jack, the eldest, 
and Bertha, born two years later. Jack was her 
own image, and so like her brothers in ways and 
speech that it seemed to her as if they lived again 
in him. Bertha was a true Falconer, both in ap- 
pearance and tastes. She was very handsome, very 
serious, very grave. The gladness of childhood 
never seemed to visit her in its fulness, while Jack 


8 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


was always a pickle, overflowing with life and 
spirits; and he was so merry and winning, it was 
almost impossible to chide him for hU mischiev- 
ousness— so his mother tliu light, though his father 
was often very severe on him. For as Gerard 
Falconer grew older he grew more like his own 
father— kind, gentle, noble in thought and deed, 
but where there seemed to him to be any falling 
away from the straight path, very stern, and even 
hard. Bertha was so like him, in this that the 
mother would often be startled at the child’s 
criticisms of her elder brother and her severity 
towards him, even in the nursery. When they 
came out of this into society it was even more 
remarkable. Bertha was not only quiet, but prim, 
and made very few friends; while Jack was one of 
those gay, bright young fellows who are popular 
with everyone and at home everywhere, from a 
ball-room to the village alehouse. The worst of 
this genial nature was that it led him into many 
temptations and all kinds of company. He was 
happy everywhere, and, one might almost say, with 
everyone but his sister Bertha, who looked upon 
him too disapprovingly to please his gay disposi- 
tion. He was never happier than when with his 
mother, whom he was very fond of. He would 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


9 


drive her out in her low pony-carriage, with its 
two pretty cream ponies, to pay calls, and would 
be most charming wherever they went, making her 
heart swell with pride and fondness. He would 
follow her about in her flower-garden, carrying her 
watering-pot or her weed-baskets — for she was a 
genuine gardener. He would hold her wool for 
her while she wound it, and tell her stories, and 
laugh so gaily that he kept the youthfulness and 
the smile on her sweet face— at least, so she often 
told the Squire. 

>‘Ah, Gerard,^’ she would say, ‘‘ I love you 
dearly, and you make me very happy; but you 
have never made me feel gay as our boy Jack does. 
What a laugh he has ! Does it not make you feel 
gay to hear him ? ” 

And the Squire would own, candidly enough, 
that he found Jack’s laugh infectious, and that for 
his part he had never been capable of imitating 
such mirth. 

‘‘ The dear boy keeps the house alive,” he said ; 
‘‘ but oh, Agnes, I wish he were steadier ! There 
is terrible trouble ahead for him— terrible trouble 
—unless he will sober down.” 

“ Don’t look ahead for trouble^' Gerard,” Lady 
Agnes would say. “ Remember, boys will be boys.” 


10 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


But her heart often smote her with fear and anxiety 
as she saw her brothers’ recklessness reappearing 
in her son. He was a perfect daredevil; nothing 
seemed to intimidate him. He would ride horses 
that no one else would come near, and seemed to 
bear a charmed life in the hunting-field. At the 
gaming-table, too, he had extraordinary luck. His 
love of cards was the greatest trouble of all to his 
father. It was irrepressible. Jack would leave 
the house when everyone was asleep, saddle 
his favourite mare himself, and ride ten miles to a 
card-party. He would promise his mother faith- 
fully never to touch the cards again, and break his 
promise the very same night. 

All the villagers loved the young Squire, and 
there was a smile on every face when he walked 
down the narrow, old-fashioned street. He would 
pause perpetually on his way to speak to one or 
another ; and if he went into the little village shop, 
or the post-office, or the blacksmith’s, he had to sit 
down and talk awhile, and found it hard to escape, 
so great a favourite was he. But the place where 
he lingered always longest, from the time when he 
came home in jackets from Eton, was at the little 
village inn. It was one of the prettiest inns in the 
whole country, and the quietest, for the Squire 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


11 


would not tolerate anything else. The house was 
like a small farmhouse, of red bi iek, and overgrown 
with wisteria, clematis, and roses. The windows 
at the back opened on to a lawn as well kept as 
any at the Squire’s, with superb standard rose-trees 
on it, and always a profusion of summer flowers in 
the beds around it. When Jack Falconer went in 
here, on his first home from school, he sat down 
in the parlour to talk to the landlord, who was 
a great favourite of the Squire’s. Roger Barton 
was an admirable tenant, prompt, punctual, orderly ; 
kept his premises well, made the little inn an orna- 
ment to the village, and ruled the “ ale-house 
bench ” and the bar very resolutely, without losing 
any favour from his customers. These were qualities 
not to be despised ; and the Squire and his family 
made a great deal of the Bartons. 

Jack, in his short jacket, sitting looking out at 
the green lawn, saw what he thought at first was a 
vision. It was a little girl in a white embroidered 
frock, with a golden halo of curls round her head, 
who came dancing over the grass. This was little 
Lily, the “darling of the village,” as she was called, 
the Bartons’ only child, their idol, and the pet of 
every visitor to the inn.. Jack thought he had 
never seen anything so beautiful ; and indeed he 


12 


A DEBT OP HONOUR. 


never had, nor ever did, for Lily Barton was ex- 
quisitely lovely. The boy had just reached the 
inflammable age ; he fell in love with Lily, whom 
he had scarcely noticed when both were mere 
babies- He carried her image back with him to 
schoo), and when he looked at other girls it was 
only to compare them disparagingly with her. 
Every time he came home it appeared to him that 
Lily had increased in beauty as in stature ; and 
indeed this was true. Each year made her more 
radiantly lovely. She shot up, tall and slender, 
and opened out into fresh sweetness as she grew, 
like her namesake flower; and when Jack came to 
be a young man, and went into Society and mixed 
among beautiful women of his own rank, he still 
saw no one who could be compared for a moment 
with this lovely girl. Yet she was only the inn- 
keeper’s daughter, and drew frothing ale in great 
brown mugs for the thirsty carters on hot summer 
days. And she did her work with the grace of 
a little princess, looking every inch a lady in her 
simple cotton dresses, wearing never an ornament 
save a rose at her belt. She had an ornament, and 
wore it, ’tis true, but not so that it could be seen : 
a heart-shaped locket, which Jack had given her in 
his schooldays. How she treasured it ! 


A DEBT OP HONOUR. 


13 


There was a redoubtable trout stream running 
through the valley near the village, which brought 
many fishers and tourists to visit it in the summer, 
and these found the inn a most delightful place to 
stay at. Many a handsome young fellow had left 
the trout in peace, in order to idle about on the inn 
lawn, and watch for a chance of speaking to Lily^ 
after once having caught a glimpse of her sweet, 
fair face. Mrs. Barton kept a keen watch on these 
moths that fiuttered about the light, but it was 
quite unnecessary. Lily was not a flirt or a 
coquette, and her innocent youn^ heart had long 
been given away, past all recall, to the young 
Squire. Yes, it was so ; and it could not be helped, 
though so jealously did the girl guard her secret 
that no one for a moment suspected he was of more 
interest to her than any of the others — except Jack 
himself. Long before any word was uttered he 
read her heart in the great dark-blue eyes when 
he met their gaze. 

Jack Falconer was very thoughtless, very reck- 
less, and in many ways very selfish, for he could 
not deny himself a pleasure, but he was not the 
kind of man who betrays a girl that loves him. 
He had no idea of ever speaking of love to Lily 
Barton. She was a dream, an ideal to him ; but 


14 A DEBT OP HONOUR. 

he had always told himself that she must remain 
so. Difference of rank removed her from him as 
absolutely as if he, a commoner, had aspired to 
the hand of a princess. And no princess could be 
nobler, sweeter, or more worthy of respect than 
Lily Barton. 


A DEBT OP HONOUR. 


15 


II- 

The Falconers had a town house which stood 
shuttered nearly all the year round, for both the 
Squire and Lady Agnes preferred their beautiful 
old home in the country to any other place. 

When Bertha was old enough to come out, how- 
ever, they decided to spend a season or two in 
town. Until then Jack had never spent more 
than a week or two in London ; and the first time 
that the whole family came up early in May, and 
plunged into the vortex of gaiety, was an un- 
deniable delight to this young man. He was a 
perfect dancer, and a great favourite with the 
ladies; and he was fortunate — or unfortunate — 
enough, according to taste, to be well approved 
by the mothers as an excellent match. Just as 
popular as his father was before him, he might 
have wed almost whom he listed. But Jack was 
not of those who marry in haste. He flirted ter- 
ribly, and made many a young heart ache, but he 
wooei^one. He loved to dance half the night, 
and then go straight to a card-table and play till 
the sun was high. Of course, he soon got a repu- 


16 


A DEBT OE HONOtTB. 


tation as a gambler ; but he had that delightful 
manner which won all hearts ; and dowagers, who 
shook their heads over his misdeeds, relented at a 
smile from him, and hoped that the dear fellow 
would marry and settle down.” 

His parents, however, were in no hurry for this. 
They did not think him wise enough yet to marry 
well. Lady Agnes was very ambitious for her 
children ; she wished them both to make really 
good matches. Bertha, she resolved, should have 
a title ; and this was what her mind was chiefly set 
on for the time being. Accustomed as she had 
been in her girlhood to the wild ways of her own 
brothers, she did not expect Jack to be more than 
a careless young fellow as yet. 

At seventeen Bertha Falconer was a very stately 
young beauty, proud and severe. She looked 
wonderfully well in her white Court dress when 
Lady Agatha presented her ; and she won so much 
admiration that her mother expected her fondest 
hopes to be realised. But though many were 
attracted by her appearance, Bertha was too cold 
and proud to readily win love ; and indeed she did 
not desire to inspire it. She chilled and repelled 
affection when it approached her. At the end of 
June, when Lady Agnes began to long for her 


A DEBT OE HONOUR. 


17 


garden, they all, but Jack, returned to Falconer 
Hall, and Bertha was as fancy-free as when she left 
it. They were to have July and August in peace 
at home, for Lady Agnes thouglit Bertha had had 
quite enough of late hours at one time for so young 
a girl ; and then a round of visits would begin, 
and a great house party was arranged for the Hall 
in the hunting season. 

Bertha went back very contentedly to her village 
life, where she ruled with a rod of iron over the 
old dames and the school-children. She seemed as 
much in her element among the National School 
children as in her Court dress at Buckingham 
Palace. Lady Agnes thought her a strange girl, 
and sympathised at heart with Jack, who could 
not tear himself away from town. He had taken 
chambers in the Albany, and set up a bachelor 
life. 

Near the end of July he appeared on the lawn 
one day, having walked over from the station. 
Lady Agnes and Bertha were sitting drinking tea 
under some wide-spreading beeches, and between 
two of the trees swung a hammock. Into this 
Jack speedily flung himself, and in spite of his 
delight at being out in the country again, and with 

his mother, he was soon fast asleep. 

2 


18 A DEBT OF HONOUR. 

“ How tired the boy looks ! ” said Lady Agnes. 

“ I think he looks very dilapidated/’ said Bertha, 
severely ; just as if he had not been in bed for 
nights. I expect he has been at the cards again. 
Mother, can’t you get him to break off that dread- 
ful habit? It will be his ruin.” 

“ His ruin, Bertha ! How you talk ! ” said Lady 
Agnes, impatiently. But her heart sank as she 
leaned over and looked at her boy’s face, with new 
lines in it, and the boyhood gone. 

Jack slept on till the dressing-bell rang, and then 
Lady Agnes woke him with a kiss. He started 
up, and seemed not to recognise her for a minute. 

When he appeared at dinner dressed and with a 
flower in his coat which Lady Agnes’s loving hands 
had put there, he looked wonderfully handsome, 
but unmistakably altered. Everyone noticed it, 
though no one commented openly on it. There 
was a look of anxiety on his face, too, which 
brought one on to his mother’s. 

He and his father sat a little while over the 
dinner-table, but Jack soon made a move and went 
outside to smoke his cigar in the soft evening air. 
He did not want to talk to any of his people 
to-night — he felt it unbearable to be with any of 
them — and so, followed by his dogs, who bounded 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


19 


out at the sight of liim on the lawn, he wandered 
away into the park and down by the riverside. 
He took mechanically a favourite walk of his, well 
known to the dogs. On many a summer evening 
had he taken them through the woods and across 
the meadow to send them into the water. There 
was a bridge across the stream, on which Jack 
had many a time leaned and watched the dogs 
swimming. It was a very pretty spot. The water 
was deep and dark, with a strong rush under the 
bridge. A bridle-road from the village to a high- 
way crossed it. Used chiefly by the village people, 
it was not lonely, but was very sequestered and 
picturesque. Jack walked straight on to the 
bridge, leaned his elbows on it, and stared down 
into the eddying water, forgetting all about the 
dogs, who were much perplexed at not receiving 
their usual commands. It was one of those softly 
clear summer evenings when there is no twilight, 
the crescent moon gleaming in the sky long before 
the sunset glow has left it. There was nothing to 
remind Jack of the passage of time, and how long 
he stood, plunged in thought too involved to be at 
all intelligible even to himself, he could not have 
told. At last his profound reverie was broken 
by a light footfall on the bridge. It startled him — 


20 


A DEBT OP HONOUB. 


it seemed as if that foot were on his heart, instead 
of on the pathway behind him. He quickly raised 
himself and turned. 

An angel seemed to stand there, so fair was the 
figure he saw in the silver light. It was only Lily 
Barton, a basket of eggs on her arm. Her sweet 
face was all alight with joy at the sight of him. 
Something that shone in those tender blue eyes 
swept over his troubled soul and washed away 
every prudent thought. 

‘‘Lily! oh, my love!” he exclaimed. “You 
love me — I am sure of it ! Comfort me — I need 
it!” 

He took her hands in his and kissed them* 
Poor Lily knew not what to say. It seemed to 
her like some wonderful dream. Surely it could 
not be real that this splendid, handsome, noble 
young man loved her ? But it was true, really 
true. Whatever fault Jack may have been guilty 
of, he was never insincere to Lily Barton. She 
appeared to him truly to be the one only woman 
worth loving in all the world. He loved her with 
all his might ; he loved her so well that he would 
never have told her so had she not come to him 
like some sweet spirit from heaven at a moment 
when he needed love so much. He craved for 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


21 


some sympathetic soul to speak to, and Lily came 
to him. The murder was out ; their mutual love 
was confessed. Jack drew a ring from his finger 
and placed it upon hers, and swore that he would 
love her till death. And this oath he truly kept. 

Lily Barton went home strangely altered in 
mind and feeling. She had won the pearl of all 
price, a love she had never dared to allow herself 
even to dream of, so far seemed it out of her 
reach ; and she had heard a sad tale, for Jack had 
told her all his troubles — how, when she came, he 
had been thinking of jumping into the deep water, 
rather than face his father to-morrow. She had 
come, and saved him. He could not die now. 
But the awful morrow had to be faced! He had 
been playing wildly at cards, and had lost — lost 
terribly; thousands had to be paid — must be 
paid ! — for gambling debts are debts of honour. 

Lity’s heart beat high, but her head throbbed 
terribly ; her joy had come thickly chequered with 
sorrow from the first. 

As for Jack, he went back across the meadow 
and the garden very slowly, and full of thought. 
He was happier for having spoken to Lily — much 
happier, for he thought her the one lovely woman 
in the world, he felt her to be a very true sym- 


22 


A DEBT OE HONOUR. 


pathiser, one to whom he could tell almost any 
fault or mistake and be forgiven beforehand ; and 
he loved her passionately. The hour he had spent 
with her had rested and strengthened him. A 
vague shadow lay over this happiness; for, of 
course, he knew well that this love was one which 
could never be permitted. But he would not 
allow himself to think of this now ; he put it back 
from him. The present difficulty absorbed all his 
mind, and he could only look on Lily’s love as 
a consolation, a great ray of sunlight amid the 
clouds which made their darkness more bearable. 
To him she was the embodiment of all that was 
fresh and sweet and lovely ; no other woman had 
ever, for a passing moment even, affected him as 
she did. His pulses beat very differently now 
that he had seen her, and he went back another 
man from the one who had walked down to the 
bridge. Life was worth living — life was sweet — 
for Lily loved him. 

The Squire and Lady Agnes were walking up 
and down the terrace arm-in-arm. When they 
saw Jack approaching, they went to meet him. 

“ You look better,” said Lady Agnes, regarding 
him critically. 

Better,” said the Squire, fixing his serious grey 


A DEBT OP HONOUR. 


23 


eyes on the young man’s face ; “ but not as well 
as you did when we left town. Jack, you’re in 
trouble ! ” 

Jack looked from one kind face to the other. 

“ In trouble, yes ! ” 

The Squire’s face darkened as he watched him. 

Is it bad, my boy ? What is it— money ? ” 

He brought out the question with great diflBculty. 
He did not quite know what he dreaded ; and yet 
it was a relief when Jack said, ‘‘ Yes.” 

“ Money ! ” cried Lady Agnes. ‘‘ Oh, my boy — 
oh. Jack !— it’s those terrible cards.” 

‘‘I can’t keep from them, mother,” said Jack, 
dejectedly. 

“But you must,” said the Squire, sternly. “If 
you want me to help you, understand that I won’t 
even listen to you unless you promise me never to 
touch a card again.” 

Jack looked at his mother. He knew he could 
never keep such a promise ; and he did not know 
what to say. Poor Lady Agnes ! she understood 
his look. “Promise,” she said, in a low voice. 
She knew very well that the Squire meant what 
he said ; there would be no hope for her boy unless 
he promised. Jack obeyed her. 

They all walked back to the house together, and 


24 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


then the Squire and Jack went away to the room 
the boy had learned to dread a little in his school- 
days; but from now he dreaded it as he never 
had done before ; and yet there were far more 
serious reckonings than this one to take place in 
this room in the future, little as could Jack or his 
father imagine it now. 

The Squire was horrified when he found to what 
an extent Jack had been gambling; the amount 
which must be paid if the family name were not 
to be utterly disgraced stupefied him. It is, how- 
ever, a notable fact in human life that the longer 
one gazes at anything the less one fears it. The 
unaccustomed and entirely novel are the only 
horrors which have power to afflict us much. The 
Squire found that, by turning the thing over and 
over in his mind, he grew accustomed to the idea 
that his only boy was a gamester ; grew compar- 
atively reconciled to the — at first unbearable — 
thought that certain lands must be sold to payhig 
gambling debts. Jack, utterly dispirited though 
he was, yet felt that after the first shock the worst 
was over. “ C’est le premier pas qiii coute.” 

But in one thing the Squire was inexorable and 
very positive indeed. This was to be the last time. 
He would not engage to do anything whatever till 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 26 

be had Jack’s written promise never to touch a 
card again. The writing of this was an awful 
struggle to Jack ; but he had no choice. He ^as 
caught in a vice, of his own making, 'tis true, but 
still a vice. He felt like a trapped hare. ^ 

After this dreadful interview was over he went 
up to his room, and, leaning out of his window, lit 
a new cigar. His thoughts veered round. Lily, 
his sweet Lily, filled all his iniiid. If he were al- 
ways with her he would never crave for the excite- 
ment of cards — so at le^rst he thought— and it was 
just while he was thinking this, while his eotll was 
all softened and trembling with the memory of 
her sweet fairness, that the bitterest- thought im- 
aginable came and stung him. An awful thought 
—one not to be evaded or talked away. It was 
this, that could the Squire know of his avowed 
love for Lily it would be a darker crime than any 
gambling debts. What lay before him in the 
future, what sorrow born of this beautiful love f 
He dared not think. He put these gloomy thoughts 
from him with a shiver of apprehension, and, leav- 
ing the window, got into bed. In a few minutes 
he was fast asleep — a picture of youth and health 
and manly beauty, in spite of the deep lines already 
made by dissipation in his face. 


26 


A DEBT OF HONOUB. 


III. 

Jack went back to town in about a week, armed 
with the needful, and got a most delightful wel- 
come from his “set,” who were one and all charmed 
to see him again. And Jack felt himself a man once 
more when he was able to pay his debts of honour 
and still entertain at his chambers or at his Club, 
and stroll down the “shady side of Pall Mall” 
with a flower in his button-hole. All was well with 
him, and the thought of Lily enabled him to keep 
his promise of avoiding the cards. For she, too, 
had extorted it from him, and an oath made to her 
was a thing he could not even imagine breaking. 
Lily was like a far-off star to him in some things ; 
this promise was one. He could not understand 
why she should be so very anxious that he should 
keep it truly. But the fact that she did feel this 
anxiety was enough to bind him to his word. 

About the middle of July he returned to Falconer 
Hall, taking with him two or three of his friends 
for a brief visit. Among these young men was a 
Lord Dane Hazleton, who was a great admirer of 


27 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 

Bertha’s, and who had been on the verge of pro- 
posing to her all through the season. He was 
himself so complete a contrast to her, that probably 
this in itself was a cause of her supreme fascination 
for him. He was the fastest of the set Jack be- 
longed to ; the most inveterate gambler of them 
all. In appearance he was very like a groom, or 
even more, perhaps, like a jockey. He did not 
keep race-horses, but the life of the Turf was a sort 
of necessity to him, and he had often ridden a race 
for one of his friends. He kept no stud of his own, 
for the simple reason that his father would not 
allow him money enough to do so. It was con- 
sidered necessary for him to marry fairly early; 
and he received many a hint and admonition to 
this effect. It was his duty also to make a good 
match ; and his people were not very well pleased 
at his marked attentions to Bertha. She was un- 
impeachable in family and blood, in birth and 
breeding, and her manner was stately enough for 
an Empress ; but still. Lord Dane might pick and 
choose. Lady Agnes watched the affair with great 
anxiety, for Lord Dane was just such a match as 
she desired for her daughter, in everything but 
himself. She wanted Bertha to marry a noble- 
man, but she was romantic enough to wish that he 


28 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


should look like one as well as be one. However, 
the uneasiness on both sides was relieved by Bertha’s 
impenetrable coldness. She did not like Lord 
Dane, and she made no pretence of liking him. 

Dane had a characteristic which he shares with 
most men of his type. It may be considered per- 
haps as part of the sporting instinct without whieh 
some of our great English institutions would be 
non-existent. The difficulty of a chase inflamed 
his ardour. He did not wish to expose himself to 
an actual refusal, but he was quite devoid of the 
sensitiveness which makes a highly-bred man with- 
draw when he sees he is not favoured. His pride 
took the form of a resolute determination to win 
in the end ; and difficulty only increased his 
desire. 

Bertha, sitting reading, as was her habit on 
summer afternoons, under the great trees on the 
lawn, looked up quietly to observe the approach 
of the new arrivals from town. It was afternoon- 
tea time, and the servants were bringing it out of 
doors. Dane and Jack came out of the drawing- 
room window towards her. 

Bertha had large eyes, of a peculiar grey-blue 
colour. Usually they were singularly expression- 
less, but now and then, when her feelings were 


A DEBT OP HONOUR. 


29 


roused, a flash like lightning would illuminate 
them. Jack, who knew her face very well, noticed 
this gleam in her eyes now, as they rested on 
Dane’s small and unattractive figure. It quickly 
died away, leaving her face even colder than 
usual. 

“ By Jove ! ” Jack thought to himself, “ I 
wouldn’t be Dane for something. How my sweet 
sister hates him ! ” 

However, she was perfectly civil, though cold 
as ice. Dane only saw in her the same chill in- 
difference she showed to everyone. Fit only for 
the stables himself, this impassive hauteur delighted 
him. “ She’s tip-top,” he would think, as he looked 
her up and down ; “and what a foot and hand she 
has ! ” The smart Society women always puzzled 
Dane a good deal ; their cleverness was beyond his 
level. He was more at home with a bright barmaid. 
Bertha never teased him in this way. She never 
unbent enough to try and amuse anybody, or in- 
dulge in Society small-talk. She would sit still to 
be admired, and leave the talking to others, while 
her mind wandered away in its own circles, quite 
undisturbed by outside influences. She did so now. 
Jack had to come to the rescue with his bright 
chatter, and he did so very willingly, not to assist 


30 


A DEBT OF HONOXJB. 


his sister, but his friend whom she was snubbing 
so unmercifully, as it seemed to him. He did not 
know that this coldness of Bertha’s was just what 
pleased Lord Dane. He had had so many caps 
set at him. And this (imaginary) cap was never 
even nodded his way. Men usually delight in 
novelty and change* Lord Dane did, at all events, 
and so he found himself very much in love with 
Bertha. 

A little later the party was enlarged by the 
arrival of several new visitors, among them Lady 
Drusilla, Lord Dane’s elder sister. 

Lady Drusilla was a woman of thirty, very dark 
in colour and complexion, and not exactly plain, 
but decidedly forbidding in appearance. She was 
really rather handsome, but had long since become 
so embittered and morose that such beauty as she 
possessed became repellent. This had arisen from 
the fact that she was a great heiress. Little do the 
poor imagine the misery of possessing much money ! 
When a mere girl. Lady Drusilla had been so far 
deceived by a fortune-hunter as to have learned 
to love him. She had given him her heart, and 
thought him the only person in the world to be 
listened to or believed in. Her parents tried their 
utmost to save her and disillusionise her, but in 


A DEBT OP HONOUR. 


31 


vain. At last she overheard, accidentally, the 
man himself speak of her in such a way as to quite 
destroy all her fond fancies. The blow was an 
awful one, and embittered her very much. No 
one could touch or win her ; she fancied all men 
alike, even when they had ample possessions them- 
selves. To her distempered fancy they always 
wanted money, and money only. Of course she 
had many offers, for her wealth was enormous, and 
she would have been loved for herself but for her 
cruel tongue and imperious temper. But it had 
become an impossibility for her to believe in any 
person’s affection, having once been so cruelly 
deceived. 

Now that she was getting older, it seemed as if 
she only wished to gratify her own fancies. It 
may be imagined that Lady Drusilla was no great 
favourite anywhere, nor a very welcome guest; 
but her brother’s quaint good-humour brought her 
many friends whom she would not have won fpr her- 
self. He was liked, in spite of his groom-like 
appearance ; at heart he was a true gentleman, and 
this quality always wins affection and esteem 
sooner or later. And so, what with her wealth 
and position, her kindly brother, and a very clever 
and popular mother. Lady Drusilla enjoyed her- 


32 


A DEBT OP HONOlTit. 


self very well. She never allowed herself to think 
about men, or permit them sufficient intimacy to 
justify even the mildest of flirtations. 

She came out on to the lawn to tea with Lady 
Agnes, the group there as yet consisting only of 
Bertha, Jack, and Lord Dane. The two women 
looked such a contrast, as they approached, talking 
together, that anyone must have noticed it. Lady 
Agnes, so much the elder, was yet so much the 
more beautiful in expression, so much softer and 
sweeter in manner, that she really looked young 
beside the other — dark-browed, stern-mannered. 
Jack did not like Lady Drusilla at all, and it was 
quite as much as he could bring himself to do to 
get up and offer her his chair. This he did ; she 
took it, with a nod and a glance at him, but no 
smile. Presently she glanced at him again, and 
then addressed him. It was for the pleasure of 
making those blue eyes brighten and gleam that 
she spoke to him. What a handsome boy he was ! 
Lady Drusilla had reached the point of weariness 
in life when to watch a bright, young face is a 
rest and pleasure ; and Jack had the peculiar charm 
of bright youthfulness of expression which is so 
winning in man or woman. Oddly enough, with 
some it lasts long after youth itself has gone. It 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


had never been on Bertha’s face, but it was even 
yet on her mother’s. 

It was a large dinner party that evening in the 
low, dark, oak-panelled dining-room. This was a 
very beautiful room, one that the Squire was par- 
ticularly proud of, and the only modernisation he 
had permitted was the replacing of the small 
lozenge-paned lattices by three large French win- 
dows. These stood wide open, admitting the scent 
of the roses, honeysuckle, and mignonette from 
outside. The grand old mahogany table was 
dressed in the new fashion which makes the utmost 
out of the beautiful old things we have left us. 
No cloth covered it; only some fine bits of eih- 
broidered linen lay in the centre. Yellow and 
white roses lay wreathed upon it ; it was lit by a 
number of wax candles in silver candelabra, and 
Lady Agnes had wreathed these with roses too. 
It was an ideal country house dinner-table, and its 
sweetness seemed to visibly brighten the spirits of 
all the tired people from town . It was a very gay 
party, even Lady Drusilla unbending from her 
usual icy manner. She sat opposite Jack, whom 
she could see between two of the rose-wreathed 
candelabra; and she scarcely took her eyes off his 
bright, flushed face. 


3 


34 A DEBT OF HONOIIB. 

The next morning Lady Agnes and the Squire 
were strolling across the lawn together, indulging 
in a few moments’ confidential chat, when she 
electrified him by a remark made very quietly — 

“Do you know, Gerard dear, I have an idea 
that Lady Drusilla has taken quite a fancy to 
Jack?” 

“ Lady Drusilla ! ” exclaimed the Squire, stop- 
ping short in his walk, and staring at her. “ Do 
you think she wants to adopt him ? ” 

“ My dear,” remonstrated Lady Agnes, “ she is 
only a year or two older than he is.” 

“You don’t mean to suggest that she is falling 
in love with him ? Why, she always gives me the 
idea of being an old woman. I’m afraid Jack has 
too much taste to reciprocate ; and we don’t want 
money, so we’ll leave her to heiTove-lorn fancies.” 

With this the Squire dismissed the matter, and 
nothing more was said. But he made observations 
himself which gave him amusement rather than 
any serious food for thought. Undeniably Lady 
Drusilla was never easy unless in Jack’s company ; 
and then her face softened and brightened. 

Jack himself was quite oblivious of all this, but, 
with his characteristic good humour and charming 
manners, did his best to amuse his mother’s guests. 


A DEBT OE HONOUB. 


B5 


All day long he was with them ; only sometimes, 
late in the afternoon, or perhaps after dinner, he 
would disappear for a little while. Whistling his 
dogs to follow him, he would take them off to the 
river, down to his favourite bridge. No one 
noticed how bright his eyes were when he started 
off, or that sometimes when they came back the 
dogs had never been in the water at all. This 
was Lily Barton’s way to the farm, where she daily 
went for eggs and butter. Just a few sweet mo- 
ments they would snatch of that love-talk which 
can never be remembered or recorded. Not yet 
did they ever talk of their future. How could 
they ? There seemed no hope for them of any sort 
as yet. But they were still so young that the 
future had a haze over it, and was full of uncer- 
tainties and possibilities. Jack could not form any 
plan or conjecture what he should do ; but he was 
very well aware that Lily had his heart absolutely 
in her keeping. 


36 


A DEBT OP HONOUR. 


IV. 

Falconer Hall was very gay all that week— 
at least, so it seemed to the village people, although 
to those newly come from town the mild country 
dissipations were rather a rest than an excitement. 
All the carriages and horses were in requisition 
every day, and the villagers stood at their cottage 
doors to watch the gay parties drive by. In 
wonder and admiration, Lily Barton would peep 
between the curtains of the inn parlour, but she 
never came outside, lest she should see Jack among 
his own friends. Her delicate pride made her 
shrink from this ; perhaps she was over-sensitive. 
But she had the idea that she would seem to him 
at such a disadvantage compared with the ladies 
he was with. She only thought of his opinion, no 
other mattered to her. She was too fine in her 
thought, and of too proud a nature to have any 
fear of these ladies themselves. She was to them 
only the innkeeper’s daughter, and could never be 
anything else, wheieas to Jack she was his love. 
In his eyes she could not bear to be cheapened or 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


37 


despised. And so it was that Jack very seldom 
caught sight of her when he drove his mother’s 
pony carriage through the village, and never when 
he was with any of their visitors ; only if he strolled 
down the street in the twilight alone he would 
see a gleaming white figure on the inn lawn, and 
perhaps a sweet hand would come out to him over 
the fence, or a low voice would whisper Good 
night.” These chance glimpses of his beautiful 
love were all he had to look forward to through 
the day ; for not one of the pretty girls who came 
to the tennis parties and dances had Lily’s charm 
for him. He was very polite to them all, and 
wondei-fully good-natured, but always just a little 
bit bored. With Lily he was perfectly happy ; 
the moments he was with her passed as time passes 
in a dream — before it can be reckoned. If he had 
not been blessed, or cursed, with such a careless, 
thoughtless nature, he would never have dared to 
let himself love so deeply and truly one so hope- 
lessly removed from him. But, alas ! the happiness 
of the moment was more to him than any thought 
of the future, or any fear of it. He was one of 
those illogical people who feel they have a right to 
happiness, although they cannot for a moment 
justify the idea by any argument. Jack’s only 


38 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


claim was that he really did try to make others 
happy, so far as in him lay. Out of love for his 
Lily first, and his mother second, he rigorously 
kept his promise to his father, and never touched 
a card. There was always a card-party at night — 
as, indeed, must be, with Dane of the party ; but 
Jack was never at the table. This pleased his 
father very much, and the boy found himself in 
high favour again. Sometimes it seemed to him, 
lost in his pride and delight in Lily’s beauty and 
sweetness, and confident of his parents’ affection 
for himself, that he might even venture to speak 
of his love to them. But the words were never 
spoken, for no sooner had he even thought them 
than imagination called up his father’s amazed face, 
his mother’s incredulous look. And then he would 
put the worry back and forget it. In time it grew 
to be one of those torments which seem to tear the 
mind and heart; but as yet it was only a worry. 
He would not allow it to be more. 

One day he was standing on the lawn, talking 
to his mother, when Lady Drusilla came in at the 
lodge-gate from a solitary walk, with some beauti- 
ful yellow roses in her hands. They went to meet 
her. 

“ Who do you think gave me these roses ?” she 


A DEBT OP HONOUR. 


39 


said, as she approached them. ‘‘ The loveliest girl 
I have ever seen in my life ! And for the first 
time in my life I have actually been in to an inn. 
How could I help it when this beautiful creature 
went in there ? And, positively, it is her home. 
Why, she ought to be a princess ! ” 

“ Ah, you mean Lily Barton,” said Lady Agnes. 
“ Yes, she is lovely indeed, and as good as she is 
lovely.” 

Jack stood silent, under a sudden shock. It hurt 
him to hear Lily spoken of like this; it brought 
the difference in their stations so prominently 
before him. His delicate, pure Lily ! And Lady 
Agnes suffered a shock also, of exactly the opposite 
kind. She was so used to Lily Barton, having 
seen her beauty grow from babyhood, that it never 
occurred to her that she was more than a lovely 
girl— that she was a noticeably lady-like one. 
Lady Drusilla’s extravagant language made her 
realise this for the first time. She chanced by some 
instinct, or perhaps only accident, to glance at 
Jack, and instantly she knew that he was suffering 
some keen feeling. She loved him too dearly, and 
had studied him too much, for him to disguise any- 
thing from her when actually experiencing it. 

“I could scarcely believe it,” went on Lady 


40 


A DEBT OF HONOUB. 


Drusilla, when she told me slie belonged to the 
inn. And she tells me she actually helps her 
mother there. Fancy a girl like that drawing 
beer ! Could not something be done for her? She 
ought to be on the stage.” 

Jack flushed now, all the more hopelessly because 
he felt his mother’s eyes on him. 

I don’t think,” said Lady Agnes, rather drily, 
“ that Lily would be so happy anywhere as in her 
own quiet home. It is as innocent and as peaceful 
as any cottage, though they do sell mugs of ale. 
The Bartons are most excellent people.” 

“You don’t like that pretty girl,” said Lady 
Drusilla, who was conspicuously devoid of tact. 

“Don’t like her? Why, she has always been 
one of my pets. But I don’t think your idea of 
putting her on the stage a happy one.” 

“Isn’t it? Well, she seems to be just made for 
the heroine of a romance. Mayn’t I talk to her 
about it ? ” 

“ Please don’t,” said Lady Agnes. “ It would 
.be a great pity to put such ideas into the child’s 
head. She is very happy in her own home, and I 
trust when she is a little older she will marry one 
of our well-to-do young farmers. She is like a 
meadow flower, only fltted for the country. I can- 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


41 


not imagine how people can think the excitements 
of busy professional lives in towns any attraction 
compared with the pleasures of a peaceful country 
life.” 

Lady Drusilla liked theatres, and was very fond 
of dances, so her hostess knew she could engage 
her in a discussion which would change the subject. 
This she succeeded in doing. Jack walked by 
them back to the house, keeping silence — very un- 
usual for him. Lady Drusilla noticed it at last 
and taxed him with his silent humour. 

Your talk has set me thinking,” he said. “ I 
have been wondering why we are not contented 
with the beauty of a place like this all the year 
round. I suppose we should be much happier.” 

“ Oh, no ! ” exclaimed Lady Drusilla, and 
launched into a further justification of her favourite 
mode of life, which was one incessant round of 
gaiety. She was thinking, perhaps quite con- 
sciously, how much more pleasant life would be to 
her than it ever had been, if she could have this bright 
young fellow always with her, to go out from dinner 
to ball, dancing attendance on her, and cheering 
her by his infectious gaiety ; while Jack, poor boy, 
was thinking to himself that the quiet pleasures of 
^ country life would be possible for him — more, 


42 A DEBT OF HONOUR. 

intensely delightful — if he had Lily to give it the 
sweetness of her presence. So are we divided 
through life from those we walk beside. Lady 
Agnes had a certain instinctive perception of what 
both the others were feeling although they had none 
about each other. She walked on, lost in thought, 
full of conjecture. Lily was indeed a lovely girl 
— she had never seen any sign of Jack’s taking too 
much interest in her ; but he might do so. Was it 
possible it could be otherwise ? — any young man 
must admire so charming a girl as this. 

The result of these reflections was that Jack 
found his solitude most unexpectedly curtailed. 
Lady Agnes went to work in the true feminine 
manner. She said nothing to anyone about her 
conjectures; but when Jack whistled to his dogs 
and started off for a stroll, he always found his 
mother loitering about the lawn. Either she would 
keep him from going out, or else she would slip 
her arm through his and go too. Thus for four or 
five days Jack and Lily never met. 

At last Jack became so full of longing to see 
Lily, and felt so determined about it, that he openly 
tried to shake his mother off one evening when 
she followed him across the lawn. For the first 
time in his life he spoke almost roughly to her, and 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


43 


said very plainly that he wanted to be alone. Lady 
Agnes turned back at once ; but a. little later she 
entered the wood and walked down the narrow 
pathway which he had taken. Very slowly and 
carefully she went, expecting at each turn to come 
upon him. But he had gone farther than that. 
At the point where the path emerged from the 
woodland she leaned cautiously forward and 
looked down. She could see the river and the 
bridge from here. A faint cry escaped her lips. 
Half hidden by a group of trees, but visible enough 
for her to recognise them, there they stood, talking 
together, Jack and Lily Barton. 

Lady Agnes came to a sudden determination, 
and immediately set to work to carry it out. She 
skirted the wood, keeping as much out of sight as 
possible. It was no easy task, for she was in her 
evening dress, and the thin shoes she wore were 
hardly strong enough for the rough ground. She 
held up her lace dress, preserving it from being torn 
to pieces with great difficulty. At last she reached 
the place where the footpath which Lily would 
naturally take to go home passed close to the 
edge of the wood. She sat down on a bank, 
where she was still half hidden by the trees, and 
waited. How long it seemed to her that she had 


44 


A DEBT OF HONOFR. 


to wait — such a weary length of time ! She bit 
her lips and knitted her brows unconsciously as 
she sat there waiting and trembling ! And so, 
when Lily Barton came gently along the path, her 
eyes dreamy with love, and caught sight of the 
figure that awaited her, Lady Agnes looked to her 
terrible, like an avenging fate! Her footfall was 
so light. Lady Agnes had not heard her coming. 
She had been sitting with her eyes on the ground, 
absorbed in thought and dread. When she looked 
up she saw a form standing before her that looked 
to her then, even in her anger, as it had once 
looked to Jack, like that of a spirit or an angel — 
Lily Barton, her face as white as the white dress 
which looked so graceful on her slight, girlish 
figure, her large eyes appearing larger than ever, 
wide open as they were in amazement. Lady 
Agnes rose and approached her. She was dressed 
in priceless old lace, and diamonds gleamed on her 
neck and in her hair. 

Lily Barton,” she said, in a stern voice, that 
had a sad quiver in it, I saw you just now with 
my son. I know now that it is you he comes 
out to meet. What is there between you? Tell 

w 

She put out her hand and caught Lily’s arm as 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


45 


she said the last words, with a break in her voice. 
The delicate white hand, wrinkled a little with age, 
and glittering with rings, clutched Lily’s firm 
young arm convulsively in the moment’s pause 
while she waited for her answer. 

‘‘ I am glad you have spoken to me,” said Lily, 
simply, her earnest eyes looking straight into Lady 
Agnes’s troubled ones. The young Squire loves 
me, your Ladyship. I cannot help it, though I 
know it must mean trouble. I am so far below 
him, he never ought to have thought of me, though 
I’ve worshipped the ground he’s walked on ever 
since I can remember.” 

There was a moment’s silence, in which the 
two women looked into each other’s eyes. A ques- 
tion Lady Agnes framed died away on her lips 
unuttered. The honesty and purity of the girl’s 
face answered it before it was asked. She trembled 
and shrank back, clasping her hands together. 

‘‘ This is awful ! ” she murmured to herself. 

“ Child,” she said to Lily, ‘‘you know this is 
impossible, do you not ? You know we shall have 
to separate him from you. It is better that you 
should know the trutli from the first.” 

Lily’s head drooped. 

It will kill me ! ” she said, in a low voice. 


46 


A DEBT? OF HOKOtJB. 


“ He is the light of my life. But I must do what 
is right for him. I must bear it, if it has to be.” 

Don’t speak like that, Lily,” said Lady Agnes. 
‘‘ You will feel it terribly at first, but you will get 
over it. It is only a boy and girl love, my dear ; 
all have these, and outlive them. Believe me, dear, 
I know the world, and I am sure it is so. , You 
will be much happier than you ever could be if 
this were allowed to go on.” 

She drew the girl to her and kissed her ; and as 
she did so, she heard Lily say again, under her 
breath — 

‘‘ It will kill me I ” 

I must go,” said Lady Agnes. They will 
think I am lost. Child, don’t take it so to heart.” 

For Lily had begun to sob — low, heart-breaking 
sobs. Lady Agnes turned away and hurried 
home ; but on the way she burst into tears herself, 
and had to pause some time in order to recover 
any semblance of composure. 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


47 


V. 

That night, after Jack had gone to his room, 
there came a low tap at the door. When he said 
“ Come in,” it opened very slowly, and his mother’s 
figure looking ghostly in a white wrapper, ap- 
peared. 

“ Why, mother ! ” he exclaimed, starting up, 
‘‘what’s the matter? Are you ill? ” 

“ No, my dear ; no,” she said, in a low voice ; 
“ only anxious, and I want to speak to you.” 

“ But it is almost morning,” he said in surprise ; 
“ and you must be tired.” 

“ I am tired,” she answered, “ but I cannot rest. 
Sit down. Jack. I can’t ; I want to walk about.” 

He sat down and looked at her in amazement. 
This restlessness was so unlike her. She came up 
to him and put her arms round his neck for a mo- 
ment. They dearly loved each other, this mother 
and son. When she walked away from him she 
was gathering up her courage. Suddenly facing 
round, and standing in front of him, she said — 

“ I spoke to Lily Barton tliis evening.” 

“ Spoke to Lily Barton ? ” Jack repeated with- 


48 


A DEBT OE HONOtTR. 


out intelligence. He did not catch her meaning. 

“ After I had seen her with you,” went on Lady 
Agnes, very slowly. 

Jack started up as if he had been shot. 

You watched me?” he exclaimed. “Mother, 
it was unworthy of you.” 

It is an awful moment wlien one with whom 
love and peace have been absolutely life-long first 
shows bitter anger, and it is awful indeed when 
this first rises between mother and child. Lady 
Agnes suffered a hitherto unknown pang of agonis- 
ing pain as she stood face to face with her boy and 
met his angry eyes — eyes that had never had any 
look yet but love for her. For a little while she 
was completely silenced by this unexpected attack ; 
she knew not what to say. But when Jack flung 
himself away suddenly, with something very hard 
and bitter whispered under his breath, her wits 
returned to her. 

“Was it worthy of you, my son, to make that 
innocent girl love you ? ” 

“ Take care how you speak of Lily,” said Jack, 
in a tone of suppressed fury. 

“ You need not warn me. I have talked to her 
she is good as gold — too good for you, I tliink now, 
though once I tliought nothing was good enough 


A DEBT OE HOisOUR. 


49 


for you. But you cannot marry her, Jack ; you 
know that; you will break her heart. And you 
must break it, now that you have spoken of love 
to her. Was it worthy of you ? ” 

While his mother was spc jiking. Jack experi- 
enced a series of emotions. He hung his head 
part of the time, but when she ceased he raised it 
defiantly. 

‘‘ I shall marry Lily Barton,” he said, resolutely. 

‘‘You cannot,” she answered. “You know it. 
I am so fond of Lily Barton myself that I can only 
weep with her in her grief ; but you know per- 
fectly well that you cannot marry a publican’s 
daughter. At all events, you cannot while your 
father lives. He will disinherit you. Are you 
prepared to become Barton’s assistant and hand 
out mugs of ale to callers? Jack, I want to settle 
this matter without it coming to your father’s ears. 
You know how stern his temper is. He is a man 
who makes resolutions and adheres to them. If 
he disinherits you, there will be no hope for you ; 
I shall not be able to do anything then. He will 
forbid me to mention your name ; you will be as 
completely forgotten as though you had never lived. 
Do you wish this to be ? Jack, let your mother 

help you while there is yet time.” 

4 


50 


A DEBT OE HONOUR. 


He was touched and moved by her words and 
manner. After a moment he spoke again, dog- 
gedly. 

I shall never marry any woman but Lily Bar- 
ton,” he said ; and his head drooped. 

Lady Agnes quickly recognised the effect she 
had produced, and the change in him. 

‘‘ Why should you think of marriage ? ” she said, 
coaxingly. There is plenty of time — you are 
very young yet. You need not be faithless to 
Lily — only do not let her fancy this boyish passion 
of yours can become serious. That is too cruel — 
too cruel and heartless to her. Jack, for her sake 
promise me you will make the bitter separation 
easy for her. I want to see her happily married 
to a man in her own rank of life. You know very 
well how much better that would be for her.” 

Don’t!” exclaimed Jack. "‘You are going 
too far — ^you are torturing me. You foi’get that I 
love Lily Barton. I swear I will never marry any 
other woman ; and I shall tell her so. I suppose I 
am helpless in my father’s hands. As you say, 
while he lives I cannot marry anyone he disap- 
proves of. But I shall be true to Lily.” 

“ It is daybreak,” said Lady Agnes, who knew 
that she had done all she could for the moment. 


A DEBT OP HONOUR. 


61 


“ Go to sleep, my sob, and think about it all again 
to-morrow.” 

“ Mother, you must not prevent my seeing Lily,” 
he said, very earnestly. I must go and see her 
to-morrow morning, poor darling.” 

‘‘I shall not prevent you,” said Lady Agnes. 

I would rather you saw her, if you will tell her 
the truth, and not deceive her any longer. I think 
it very possible she may not understand how the 
difference in your positions must separate you — 
fatally, and for ever. Oh, Jack, if you had truly 
loved her, you would not have deceived her like 
this!” 

So saying, she went quickly away, closing the 
door softly but firmly. She had said all. She 
could say no word more now. So, deeply sad that 
tears could not be any relief, she went to her room 
and lay down in silence and in sleeplessness — 
suffering as only mothers can suffer. 

Jack, meantime, walked up and down the room 
in a fever, and in such distress of mind that the 
very thought of rest was intolerable. Lily, his 
one bright, pure star, the guiding light of his life, 
which would make him strong and true, was she 
to be taken from him ? The dawn came soon, 
fortunately for him. So soon as he saw the light 


62 


A DEBT OF HONOUR, 


he changed his dress, and went out into the gar- 
dens. The keen morning air, the bright sky, the 
dewy grass, and the faces of the flowers, all soft- 
ened by the dimness of the night, relieved his 
spirit, and gave him a sense of gladness again. 
“ If I could have Lily ! ” he exclaimed to himself, 
standing still in the midst of the green lawn. ‘‘If 
Lily might be always with me, then I could stay 
here in the country quietly, and be perfectly hap|w. 
But without her to cheer and gladden me, what 
am I to do? I shall go mad here, in this quiet 
place — it^s like a tomb. How can I amuse myself? 
Lily can always charm the hours away by some 
magic of her own. What can I do without her? ” 
In all this, as will be seen. Jack, thougli he was 
deeply and truly in love with Lily Barton, never 
thought of her, but only of himself. It never once 
occurred to him that Lily would be buried in “this 
tomb” — as he described the lovely village he dwelt 
in — without any chance of change or of alleviation 
but one; and that one, of course, was unthinkable, 
being simply that of marrying another man. At 
the present he did not for a moment conceive this 
as possible ; and yet his passionate despair and 
grief and regret were not for her, but for himself. 
He had the idea, common to so many young men, 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


53 


especially when loved and spoiled by their mothers, 
that it was only a matter of justice for him to have 
all he wished for. According to this creed, a man 
needs happiness and the gratification of all his 
wishes ; otherwise he needs excitement and dis- 
traction to reconcile him to the barrenness of his 
lot. With a girl — of course it is quite different 
for a girl, all men would say — but in justice to 
Jack I must record that he never thought about 
tins side of the matter at all. He did not know he 
was selfish ; but then we never do when we are. 

Poor Lily, to her he was a demi-god — more, a 
true god. Such a thought as that he was selfish 
could never have occurred to her; all her sym- 
pathies would have been with him, for Lily pos- 
sessed one of those devoted natures which always 
place the welfare of the loved ones first. These 
bright, star-like, unselfish souls are always cer- 
tainly sacrificed, sooner or later. 

To Lily Barton the sacrifice had to come soon. 
Her character was so simple and so pure that in 
her sky there could be but one star. She knew 
not how to outlive an early love and accept a 
latter-day consolation. The mere idea would have 
been inconceivable to her, even if anyone could 
have bad the temerity to suggest it to her. But 


54 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


it was never easy to suggest a base or even a com- 
monplace thought to Lily when one encountered 
the steady gaze of her clear eyes. She had the 
heroic quality in her which isolates some men and 
women from the crowd. 

Jack wandered about on the lawn in a state of 
desperate despondency, trying to keep his feet 
from taking the direction they desired— towards 
the village street. Of course they ended by taking 
him thither. He arrived at the inn door just be- 
fore it was opened. When Roger Barton looked 
out to see what the morning was like, he saw a 
stalwart figure, set off to the utmost advantage by 
a well-cut suit of clean white flannels, leaning on 
the gate beneath the archway of honeysuckle and 
cabbage roses. 

^VThe young Squire !” exclaimed Roger Barton, 
much amazed. 

Jack’s gaze was fixed on an upper window — a 
lozenge-paned lattice, wreathed with a clustering 
crowd of little white roses. It stood wide open, 
and the air blew to and fro a white dimity curtain 
which screened it. He did not even notice the 
opening of the door until Barton came out into 
the sunlight and addressed him in his hearty voice. 

“You’re up early, Mr. Jack. Are you looking 


A DEBT OF HONOUK. 


65 


in for an early breakfast? Well, it’s all ready. 
There’s a splendid piece of cold ham in cut, and 
plenty of eggs from Lily !s fowls, and the good wife 
is making the coffee. Nobody makes such coffee 
as Lily, and she is generally up with the dawn and 
has it all ready when her mother comes down, but 
to-day she is late. Come in, Mr. Jack. You’ve 
surely not been up all night?” 

This last question was the result of a scrutiny of 
Jack’s face as he entered the gate and came near. 
In the strong light he looked haggard and drawn. 
Thinking and suffering were not in Jack’s line, 
and he showed the effects of the unaccustomed 
strain by new lines round his eyes and mouth. 

Yes,” he said, with a laugh, “ I’ve been up all 
night. We sat up late in the smoking-room, and 
then I thought it was too fine to go to bed. So 
I’ve been walking in the gardens.” 

‘‘ You’re right there, sir ; in this weather it’s a 
sort of sin to spend the time in bed. However, 
we working people must have our rest. It’s very 
unusual for our Lily to be so late, though. Here’s 
Mr. Jack come to breakfast, mother ; get another 
cup and plate for him. But where’s Lily ? ” 

‘‘ I’ve just been to see,” said Mrs. Barton, 
after a curtsey and “ Good morning ” to Jack. 


66 A DEBT OF HONOUR. 

I’m afraid she’s not well. But she’ll be down in 
a minute.” 

Mrs. Barton put a cup for Jack — a beautiful 
cup, for this was one of the houses where the 
tourist is tempted to theft by old china which no 
money will buy. Jack being an honoured guest, 
his cup and plate were taken from a shelf on which 
the rarest treasures were kept. Often did he think 
of this scene afterwards — the large room, the 
sanded floor, the ceiling crossed by great beams; 
the breakfast-table with its snow-white cloth made 
to look whiter by vases of red roses of Lily’s 
arranging ; the wide window opening on the 
smooth lawn and brilliant flower-beds. The fra- 
grance of the coffee, the scent of a spray of honey- 
suckle he had picked at the gate and placed in his 
white coat, even these lingered vividly in his 
memory and returned to him amidst such different 
sights and odours later on, that it scarcely seemed 
to him he could be living in the same world. 

They all sat down ; and Roger Barton, who had 
not breakfasted without his Lily’s beautiful face 
opposite him for many a long year, began to be 
very uneasy, and to look continually at the door. 
When at last it softly opened and Lily entered, 
she was totally unprepared for a visitor at the 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


57 


breakfast-table, for she had nut been looking out 
of the window when Jack stood at the gate, but 
had been on her kuees by her bedside, praying for 
help to bear the suffering she saw before her. 

Jack rose as she entered; and when her eyes fell 
on him, Lily, whose cheeks had been white as hej* 
white cambric dress, flushed a rose-red all over her 
face and brow and neck, and then paled again to a 
deathly pallor. She paused and wavered, and it 
seemed to Jack as if she were about to fly. But 
she quickly conquered the feeling and advanced 
with composure, dropping Jack a curtsey like her 
mother’s, as she approached. This curtsey was 
taught at the village school, and Jack received it a 
hundred times a day as he passed down the street, 
but it seemed strange to him from Lily, since their 
love had been confessed. It brought more vividly 
to his mind the gulf that separated them. 

What would bridge it over? For the first time, 
sitting here as the innkeeper’s guest, he fully and 
deeply realised that his daughter and himself could 
never really be one ; that their interests and pleas- 
ures could never be identified, even if they were 
married. It was a deeper deatli-knell to his hopes 
of happiness than even his father’s forbiddance. 

He longed with all his soul to go to her and take 


68 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


her in his arms, and tell her parents then and there 
how dearly he loved her and how he wished her to 
share his whole life with him, and make it beau- 
tiful for him, and save him from himself and his 
own weaknesses. For he recognised that she could 
do this, and no one else. But he sat silent— the 
moment passed — and Lily handed him his coffee- 
cup and took her place at the table, quiet, with 
white face and lips, but a perfectly calm manner. 


A DEBT GF HONOUB. 


69 


VI. 

Bbeakfast over, Lily vanished silently, as 
dreams do, and Jack was alone with the old people. 
His stronger nature stirred in him then a little, 
and he longed to speak out and tell them what he 
felt for their darling. But no ; it was impossible. 
What was the use ? 

So he went out with Roger Barton to look at a 
foal in the paddock, and some new cows just home 
from the neighbouring market ; and the morning 
drifted on. Mrs. Barton, meantime, went in search 
of her Lily. Had the child gone to the dairy, as 
was her wont ; or to the meadow, gathering mush- 
rooms ; or on any of her other picturesquely use- 
ful errands ? No, she was not to be found in any 
of her accustomed morning haunts. 

Mrs. Barton went up the narrow staircase, and 
softly approached Lily’s door. Was she shut in 
her own room ? Never had she gone back there 
when all the morning’s work had to be done. But 
the mother’s heart had the sense in it of sorrow. 
And there was Lily indeed, kneeling again by her 


60 


A DEBT OP HONOUR. 


little white bed, praying as only those pray who 
suffer. In a moment she was snatched into her 
mother’s arms, and folded in their maternal em- 
brace. 

“ Child ! — tell me what it is I ” 

Bitter, scalding tears, of the sort that make 
marks on the fair skin of a young face, were falling 
from Lily’s eyes. She could not immediately con- 
trol herself well enough to speak. But soon she 
did, for she felt the agony of suspense beating in 
her poor mother’s heart, and tried to control her 
grief sufficiently to tell what it was. And so she did 
at last ; and showed her poor little treasures — the 
locket of long ago, and the ring, so lately given — 
and told all that had happened in the sweet, sad 
history of her love ; and then, without pause, went 
straight on and told of her meeting with Lady 
Agnes last night. When she came to this the 
mother started, and seemed to shrink together. 

Oh, my poor child ! ” she said beneath her breath. 
But she said no more, and listened to the end, to 
every word that each had said to the other. 

And now it is all over,” said Lily, when she 
had finished, “ I think I could bear it more easily 
if I never saw him. But I know I must see him 
sometimes, and so I was praying for strength.” 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 61 

“ My pooF) patient child ! Oh, my poor child ! 
What can I do to ease the pain for you ? ” 

Worn out with the intensity of her emotion, 
Lily laid her head down upon her hands upon her 
mother’s knees, and seemed to fall into a state of 
semi-consciousness. She was indeed unhappy in 
having so strong and true a heart, for in this un- 
happy world it is seldom that one true heart meets 
another. Lily’s mother knew well what the 
suffering was to her, and it was this knowledge 
that made her silent about all the practical aspects 
of the matter. It was impossible to speak of any 
every-day consideration in the face of this anguish. 
Presently she raised Lily in her arms and laid her 
head upon her pillow. She lay there apathetic 
and white, her eyes closed. 

“ I must speak to your father,” said Mrs. Barton, 
standing beside her. She spoke as a matter of 
course. Her instinct was to go at once to him 
and tell him the trouble, as she had told him every 
trouble ever since they had been married. But 
Lily sprang up at the words. 

No, mother, no ! ” she exclaimed. “ Don’t 
tell father! I can’t bear it! I cannot talk about 
it to anyone else — and I cannot bear to see him 
look at me, as I know he would, so sadly. I’ll 


62 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


pretend to be quite gay again, indeed I will, 
mother dear, if you will only spare me any more 
talk about it. We must forget that ever such 
things were talked of.” 

Mrs. Barton dimly guessed Lily’s reason for this 
reticence ; that the father would, like Lady Agnes, 
blame Jack for being so weak as ever to have 
spoken of his love to Lily. And, indeed, she 
confessed to herself there was little use in stirring 
up indignation now abbut the calling to life of a 
feeling already laid in its coffin, though, perhaps, 
not dead. Mrs. Barton stood silently thinking, 
and concluded that Lily’s instinct was no doubt 
right. In such an affair the least said was soonest 
mended, and much less sorrow would come of it 
if no ill-feeling were roused between Roger Barton 
and the young Squire. 

“ You may be right, child,” she said at last. 
‘‘ 1 never kept a seci*et from your father yet ; but 
this is your secret, not mine. You have acted 
well so far, and I will not disregard your wish. 
At all events, I will not say anything to your 
father without telling you I am going to do so.” 

With this Lily had to be content, but it satisfied 
her, for she knew her mother would keep her 
word. And anything was better than that the 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 63 

terrible wound in her heart should be probed any 
further. 

Mrs. Barton gave her daughter a very tender 
kiss, and then went away downstairs to attend to 
the many morning duties which were awaiting 
her. Lily remained where she was, her head on 
the pillow where her mother had placed it; by 
tacit consent her duties were left for awhile. Lily 
was a delicate girl, yet she never failed in her 
work, and was always at her post. But this 
morning it seemed impossible for her to be a part 
of the work-a-day world. 

She lay stunned for awhile, not thinking, scarcely 
feeling. The keen spasm of anguish had worn 
itself out, and for the moment the pain was dulled 
by sheer weariness. But in the solitude and quiet 
of her room, the soothing sense of her mother’s 
presence and sympathy gone, she suddenly felt 
the sharp sting of pain again. Terrified at the 
intensity of her own suffering, she sprang up. She 
felt she must get out into the air and go to her 
work — that this would be the only relief ; and so, 
with but a hasty glance at her pale face, she 
hurried down and out into the garden and the 
meadows. The bright morning air restored her a 
little; and, after wandering about on the grass 


64 


A DEBT OF HOKOUB. 


awhile, she turned hastily to go to her work in- 
doors. But, as she approached the gate of the 
meadow, she paused a moment and hesitated, for 
there was Jack, holding it open for her. He looked 
quiet and very subdued ; all his gay light-heart- 
edness of manner was gone for the moment. 

I waited to speak to you,” he said. I could 
not go away till I had spoken to you.” 

Lily put out her hands and clasped them on the 
gate, as if for support." Jack put one of his hands 
on both hers. What a pretty picture they made, 
standing like this ! A pair of ideal lovers. 

“ My darling ! ” he said, and paused a moment. 
How beautiful the words sounded, for he spoke 
with a passion of love and reverence combined. 
“ I know my mother spoke to you yesterday even- 
ing after we parted. Oh ! my dear, it must have 
hurt you cruelly. She came to me and told me 
all about it. Lily, what can I do?” 

There is only one way,” answered Lily, look- 
ing at him very steadily. “We must not see each 
other any more. I am resigned now.” 

Resigned ! How hard the word seemed, uttered 
in the brilliance of the fair morning by this girl in 
the morning of her life. Was it imperative, was it 
ordered by Fate, that such renunciation must be. 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


66 


the giving up of all that was good and delightful, 
for both these young people ? Jack felt the bitter- 
ness of it to the full at this moment, when she 
spoke so sadly, and with such steadfast resolution 
in her voice. 

“ Lily,” he said, hesitating as he spoke, would 
you come away with me ? Will you marry me ? 
And we will go abroad.” 

“ No,” she said ; “ no, I should spoil your life, 
and we should break too many hearts. No, dear ; 
it must be good-bye.” 

“ Oh, my Lily, and I love you so ! What am I 
to do without you, Lily ? If they will not let me 
marry you, I will never marry any other woman. 
Your place by my side shall never be filled.” 

Lily drew a little nearer to him as he spoke, her 
eyes fixed on him as though she were fascinated by 
the intensity of her love for him. 

“ Remember,” she said, very low, but very dis- 
tinctly, “I shall kill myself if you do. I could not 
live to see that ! ” 

“ Don’t talk in that way, Lily, my dear one,” he 
exclaimed; “you terrify me. You know it will 
never be — but even so, don’t talk of killing your- 
self. Your dear life should never be stained by ev ju 
the thought of such an awful crime.” 


66 


A DEBT OF HONOUB. 


‘‘ I should not be able to help it,” she answered, 
very quietly and sadly, It may be very wicked, 
but it is so. I am afraid it must be very wicked 
to love as I love you. . I know what I can bear, 
and what I cannot. I know my strength. I have 
taught myself that I have to live without you 
— ^that I have to give you up. I have schooled 
myself to it, and I think I can do that, and quietly. 
But don’t give me too much to bear. I will not 
live and see another woman your wife ! ” 

And now she was weeping wildly, as if her heart 
were being torn out from her body, at the bare 
thought of what she had herself suggested. 

‘‘ My dear, don’t fancy such a thing,” cried Jack ; 
you shall never have to suffer it. I swear it to 
you.” 

He held her close to him, in so tender and 
passionate an embrace that the sense of it stayed 
her weeping. She grew quite quiet again ; and 
then, after a moment of trance-like feeling, she 
drew herself gently away from him. 

“ Don’t speak to me any more now,” she said ; 
and putting him from her with a quick gesture of 
her hand, she turned and walked to the house 
across the garden. 

As she did so, a low pony-carriage drew up at 


A DEBO? OE HONOUR. 


67 


the gate. Lady Agnes and Lady Drusilla sat in it. 
They saw Lily; and she, being a very proud girl, 
would not avoid them now, but walked straight 
out to see what they wished. 

Lady Agnes asked some ordinary question. She 
had too much tact to let anyone suppose she was 
really looking for Jack. Lily answered her with 
composure. 

Child, someone has been vexing you,” said 
Lady Drusilla the tactless. ‘‘You should not 
spoil those pretty eyes with tears. A young girl 
like you cannot have any troubles worth crying 
about.” 

Lily looked up and met Lady Agnes’s eyes filled 
with a deep sympathy. 


68 


A DEBT OF HONOtTR. 


VII. 

Jack went home across the fields, lost in thought, 
and in sadness ; or, indeed, worse than sadness — in 
a weary blank of mind arid feeling. 

Only those who have loved passionately can 
guess what it means to lose the loved one. It 
turns life into a darkness, a hopeless waste, a 
dreary treadmill which it is useless — worse than 
useless — to pursue. Worse than useless, because 
it is all painful and unendurable without the one 
vivifying presence. It is certain that there are 
many persons who do not know what love is, who 
cannot realise its power, who know nothing of its 
passion. Poor dullards! They miss a great deal 
of suffering, but what keen pleasure they miss too ! 

Jack was not of this order. Whatever else he 
might lack (and his faults were many and vital), 
he did not lack the capacity to love. If destiny 
had placed him or Lily in a different sphere, and it 
had been possible for them to marry, she would 
have sweetened all his life and made it as fair as 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


69 


herself. But destiny is inexorable, and none can 
escape its apparently cruel decrees. Lily was 
placed, with regard to her lover, as a jewel is 
within a goldsmith’s window to the poor man on 
the pavement. He can see its brilliance and bean t v, 
but he can never have it for his own. But with 
Jack the case was so much the harder that, could 
he have had his precious stone, it would have made 
his life good and beautiful, instead of barren and 
dark. And she was just as unattainable to him as 
though she were the Koh-i-Noor itself, and he a 
beggar in the streets. 

Lord Dane Hazleton was strolling in the stables, 
kicking his heels, smoking big cigars because he 
found nothing better to do and wanted to pass the 
time somehow. Very difficult it was to get through 
the morning hours. For there were no men staying 
at Farquhar Hall but himself, and Jack was but a 
poor liost at present. 

However, Jack appeared on the scene just as 
Lord Dane was getting perfectly desperate, and 
seriously considering how he could most quickly 
get himself telegraphed for. Matters, therefore, 
never came to quite this desperate state. Jack 
saw the situation at a glance, and immediately 
devoted himself to his guest’s amusement. The 


70 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


task was an easy one, Lord Dane being one of the 
most good-humoured men imaginable. 

At luncheon the whole party gathered, and Lady 
Agnes was very relieved to find Jack present, and 
in his usual gay Immour. Lady Drusilla related 
how she had seen the innkeeper’s beautiful 
daughter that morning, and had been shocked to 
see she had been crying bitterly. ‘‘ It is such a 
pity that the child should not be made the most of 
while she is so young and so beautiful, for hers 
is a beauty that will fade early,” Lady Drusilla 
observed, with a sad air, as if much regretting the 
fact. She was one of those curious women who 
derive satisfaction from such thoughts as these. 

“I think not,” said Lady Agnes, with a smile. 

The beauty of expression in such a face as Lily 
Barton’s is no question of youth.” 

“But fair-haired women usually fade early,” 
observed Lady Drusilla, by way of defence. 

“ Lily Barton’s is a beauty which is quite inde- 
pendent of fair or dark hair or any such details,” 
said Lady Agnes, quietly but very decidedly. 
“ She is a good girl.” 

Looking up as she spoke, she met Jack’s eyes 
fixed on her with a look of intelligence and grati- 
tude which made her heart beat ; for she loved her 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


71 


boy more dearly than words can say. And in the 
night it had come to her with a shock of horror 
that her boy might come to hate her, while in fact 
she was trying to save him. And now she saw in 
his look complete love and reconciliation, what a 
pleasure this was to her, with such a difficult part 
as she had to play, only a mother can know. 

“ I don’t believe,” observed Lord Dane, ‘‘ that I 
can ever have seen this beauty and paragon. If I 
had known of her existence, I would have patron- 
ised the village inn this morning. You have never 
taken me there. Jack. Why keep these rough 
diamonds so darkly concealed ?” 

Jack did not look up from his plate, and Lady 
Agnes came to the rescue by hastily turning the 
conversation. 

Later in the evening Jack found Lady Agnes 
standing alone by one of . the drawing-room 
windows, looking out very sadly at the shadowy 
garden. 

‘^Mother,” he said, “ what, am I to do? I can’t 
stay here and never see Lily ; you don’t think that 
is possible, do you ? It’s more than human flesh 
and blood can bear.” 

She turned and put her delicate hand on his, and 
started to find that his was burning like fire. 


72 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


‘‘ Why, Jack,” she said, ‘‘you’re in a fever ! ” 

“ I believe I am,” he said. “ I can’t realise it 
all yet; but I know I can’t bear it. No, don’t 
look so anxious — I shan’t be ill— but I may do 
some wild thing, I think. Oh ! mother dear, why 
are things so badly ordered ? Lily Barton could 
keep me straight — no one else ever will.” 

“Hush! ’’said Lady Agnes, looking anxiously 
round. “I am in terror lest your father should 
hear even a whisper of this. Oh, Jack, what a 
misfortune it is ! Why did you not love a girl of 
your own rank, for then your father would have 
been pleased and happy ? There is nothing that 
would have pleased him more.” 

“Well,” said Jack, gloomily, “ J can’t help it. 
I don’t see how a man can look at any girl but 
Lily when she is by.” 

Lady Agnes made no answer. She knew there 
was none to be made, so wisely held her peace. 

“ I shall simply go mad if I stay here,” said Jack. 
“The thought of her being so near keeps me in a 
fever. Poor darling ! I long a hundred times an 
hour to go and speak to her, and comfort her.” 
(Oh, Jack, Jack ! You mean let her comfort you !) 
“ And it is so intolerably cruel and unbearable. 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


73 


Mother, I don’t think you can imagine how rm 
suffering over this.” 

“Yes, I can,” she answered, very softly; “for 
we are very much alike in some things, Jack. I 
believe you love Lily as I loved your father; and 
I should have gone mad if I had been separated 
from him.” 

“I shan’t do that,” said Jack, “that’s not my 
style ” (for the boy knew himself in some things), 
“and I shan’t be ill. But I feel as if I could 
kill somebody out of sheer spitefulness and rage 
at fate ! I suppose that is a kind of illness of the 
mind, isn’t it, mother ? Do you know,” he went 
on, without waiting for her to answer, “I feel 
now as if I could go and tell my father all about 
it, and as if that would be the right thing to 
do.” 

“ Great heavens. Jack, don’t be so rash ! ” ex- 
claimed Lady Agnes ; “ you will ruin yourself for 
life. Oh, my boy, my boy ! I know how stern 
your father can be, and how inexorable his deci- 
sions are. Bertha is his child — not you. He does 
not understand you any more than she does. 
Trust me. Jack, and don’t commit such a hopeless 
mistake as that would be.” 

“I suppose you are right,” said Jack, gloomily. 


74 A DEBT OF HONOUR. 

“ No, I don’t mean that — I know you are right. 
But it would make me feel easier to make a clean 
breast of it all.” 

It would not improve the position in any way 
as regards Lily,” observed Lady Agnes; “and 
your father would simply never forgive you.” 

Jack stepped out of the open window on to the 
gravel of the terrace, whistling as he walked. 
He turned back again in a moment. 

“ Dane wants me to go home with him to- 
morrow, mother,” he said. “ I’d better go. Any- 
thing’s better than stopping here now.” 

“Perhaps so,” said Lady Agnes. “But, oh! 
Jack, I’m afraid to trust you with him. He is 
such a gambler. For Heaven’s sake, don’t let him 
tempt you I ” 

“Keep to one thing at a time, mother,” said 
Jack, with a return of the irritability which had so 
terrified her tender heart in the night. “ If I stay 
here I cannot keep away from Lily.” 

“ Then you mustn’t stay, for her sake,” said 
Lady Agnes, sorrowfully. “ But I wish you were 
going with anyone but Dane. He’s a dear fellow, 
but I know he loves cards. Jack, promise me not 
to touch them while you are there.” 

“ Don’t press me too hard, mother,” exclaimed 


A DEBT OP HONOUR. 


75 


Jack. ‘‘How can I promise that? I’m going 
away to avoid Lily, who could wean me from 
every taste in the world that did not please her — 
and you’ll be wanting me to wear a blue ribbon in 
my button-hole next I ” 

So saying, Jack [)lunged his hands deep into his 
coat pockets (a curious symptom of sulks with 
men), and walked off across the lawn. It was a 
moonlight night, and long shadows from the trees 
lay across the grass. Jack’s shadow was long, too, 
and Lady Agnes watched it in a fascinated way. 
It seemed to her as if the reins she was trying to 
hold had got beyond the strength of her wrists — 
the young horse was running away, with the bit 
between its teeth. What was she to do? She 
knew not — but was roused by hearing someone 
enter the room, and remembering her duties as 
hostess, turned away from the window to entertain 
Lady Drusilla. 

“Where’s Jack?” said that lady. “I’ve been 
looking for him everywhere.” 

“ He’s out in the garden,” said Lady Agnes. 

“ The house seems so dull without him,” said 
Lady Drusilla. “ What a lovely night it is ! Do 
let us go out ; it’s a shame to stop indoors.” 

Lady Agnes yielded willingly enough. She did 


76 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


not trouble herself about Lady Drusilla’s patent 
infatuation for her handsome son. She knew only 
too well that Jack was perfectly oblivious of it. 
So they went out together into the moonlight, and 
stepped on to the grass. The dew was scarcely 
perceptible yet; the ground being so parched, it 
drank each drop the moment it was received. 
They were having a real old-fashioned August for 
once, as we say in these days when we have 
February weather through all the months of the 
year. 

At this moment Lord Dane and Bertha were 
holding a very serious conversation in the library. 
He had seized a favourable opportunity, when 
everyone seemed too taken up with other matters 
to notice him, and Bertha was alone at her accus- 
tomed writing-table, making up what seemed to 
be accounts. Lord Dane had no idea what they 
were, nor why she should be so busy, but had a 
vague general idea that it had to do with her 
philanthropic school-teaching. He felt that if he 
did not seize his courage with both hands, and 
speak out now, before his visit came to an end, he 
never should. He was mortally afraid of Bertha, 
which was just one reason why he admired her so 
much. How severe and stately she looked sitting 


A DEBT OE HONOtTK. 77 

there at her well-ordered table, her pale face 
wearing an absorbed look ! 

Lord Dane entered very quietly, professing to 
be in search of a book from the shelves, and wan- 
dered round the room, throwing glances of admira- 
tion at her from different points of observation. 
Bertha took not the slightest notice of him ; she 
knew her power over him far too well for that. 

That Lord Dane would propose for Bertha 
sooner or later was perfectly clear to everyone 
who knew them, but no one imagined for a mo- 
ment that she would accept him. Lady Agnes 
had not been able to win the slightest confidence 
from her on the subject; the girl was as silent and 
inscrutable as the Sphinx itself. 

Bertha had not chosen to take anyone into her 
counsels, simply because she knew exactly what 
she was going to do ; and when she had made up 
her mind about a matter she considered that dis- 
cussion about it was simply a waste of time. She 
had tested her powers, and she knew that she 
would make but few conquests. Only a certain 
type of man admired her, one that was an absolute 
contrast to her own style. She was well aware of 
this. She had observed that her icy reserve chilled 
the quiet men who were attracted at first by the 


78 A DEBT OF HONOUB. 

beauty of her face. She had one great advantage 
in this usually difficult matter of making up her 
mind how to act. Emotion of any sort was so un- 
familiar to her that she regarded it as a species of 
vulgarity. It never occurred to her that she 
should marry a man who pleased her fancy or 
touched her heart. Dane exactly fulfilled her 
idea of a husband, because she felt she could 
always keep him in order, and he would never be 
a trouble to her. Therefore she had clearly made 
up her mind to accept him as soon as he offered 
himself, and so doing, quietly and without trouble, 
establish herself for life in a position which was 
just all she wished for. 

And so, when Dane came trembling to her, re- 
solved to throw the fatal die, and win or lose the 
prize he wanted, he found it slip into his grasp — 
with great dignity, it is true, but with no unneces- 
sary loss of time. So little had he expected to 
succeed (for she had quite hoodwinked him by 
her consistent indifference) that he was scarcely 
able to believe in her “Yes” even when he had 
heard it. 

“ Bertha,” stammered the kind-hearted little 
man, crimson with delight, “ I swear I’ll make you 
happy ! You shall have everything you want — 


A DEBT OP HONOUR. 


79 


you shall never hear an unkind word from me.” 

Bertha made no answer to this — merely bowed 
her proud head, barely concealing a faint smile of 
amusement. 


80 


A DEBT OF HONOUB. 


VIII. 

The announcement of Bertha’s engagement fell 
like a thunderbolt on the family. Lady Agnes 
and Jack both knew very well that Lord Dane 
would propose at the first opportunity Bertha gave 
him ; but they were also both under the impression 
that she never would give him the opportunity. 
When therefore she herself made the announce- 
ment (as she elected to do), as soon as she found 
herself alone for a few minutes with her family, 
the effect was startling. The Squire, who was not 
at all keen-sighted in such matters, had never 
dreamed of such a situation ; and his surprise ex- 
iiibited itself in some remarks which would have 
been trying indeed to Bertha had she happened to 
be in love. 

“ Bless my soul ! ” he ejaculated. In my time 
girls used to like a fine figure of a man. Dane’s 
like a groom, and not much at that. Of course, 
he’s a great match, but I had an idea you were 
above considerations of that sort, Bertha.” 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


81 


He looked curiously at her as he spoke. Bertha 
was very like him in some characteristics, but in 
others she was as much a sealed book to him as 
she was to her mother. Squire Falconer was quite 
unworldly in his ideas and motives; and he fancied 
his daughter was even more so. She never talked 
about her reasons for action, and therefore it was 
very hard for anyone unaccustomed to study hu- 
man nature to guess at them. And she never acted 
until she had thought out her reasons so thoroughly 
that it appeared to her quite unnecessary to repeat 
the process even in her own mind. 

“Lord Dane will suit me very well,” was all the 
answer she made to her father. 

“Then I suppose there’s nothing to be said,” 
spoke the Squire, rather angrily, looking at Lady 
Agnes, who was standing still with her eyes fixed 
on Bertha, as she had done ever since the girl had 
made the announcement. She seemed lost in sur- 
prise. 

“ Lord Dane will speak to you to-morrow morn- 
ing, father,” said Bertha, composedly, lighting her 
bedroom candle as she did so. It was very late, 
and she felt her day’s work was done. They had 
gathered in Lady Agnes’s little sitting-room up- 
stairs, to settle some plans for the next day, and 


82 


A DEBT OP HONOUR. 


Bertha had taken the opportunity of telling the 
others her news. 

Jack was lounging in a low chair, looking utterly 
bored and disgusted with life. He had raised his 
eyebrows in amazement when Bertha first spoke, 
but after that slight expression of surprise had 
sunk back into his previous apathy. His own 
passionate love affair entirely obscured such sober 
doings as this. All he felt was a faint feeling of 
sympathy for poor Dane, who, as he reflected to 
himself, could not possibly have any idea of what 
was before him. 

“ I wouldn’t be in his shoes for something ! ” 
this uncomplimentary brother thought to himself, 
as he watched Bertha quietly and complacently 
making her preparations to go to her room with an 
air as if her account-books and her lacework were 
of infinitely more importance than any lover that 
ever existed. 

‘‘ I wonder if that young lady has a heart in her 
stately body,” he thought, as he looked at her. ‘‘ I 
know I shouldn’t like the risk of appealing to it, 
lest I should find it conspicuous by its absence. 
Well, I suppose Dane’s contented, so that’s all 
right.” 

With which consideration his reflections on 


A DEBT OE HONQUB. 


83 


Bertha’s engagement closed for the present, and 
Ills mind went back to the one absorbing vision 
which at the moment filled it, his own love, his 
beautiful Lily— his no longer. 

Yes, she would always be his love ! They were 
both capable of the real emotion, the divine passion, 
which can no more be changed by circumstances 
than the tide of the sea. In his heart Jack felt a 
sort of contemptuous pity for Bertha and her icy 
coldness. It was better to suffer like this than to 
be an emotionless statue. Yes, much better. 

Bertha now became the centre of interest to 
everybody, from the moment her engagement was 
openly spoken of ; which she took care should be 
immediately after Dane had seen her father, and 
all was settled. In the recesses of her mind she 
had a secret fear that his own people would oppose 
the marriage, and she was determined to leave as 
slight a chance as possible of this difficulty being 
allowed to become serious. Dane went off to 
Hazleton Court the next day, taking Jack with 
him. Lady Drusilla, when she found they were 
going, decided to shorten her visit and travel 
home with her brother. The other visitors at the 
Hall were leaving too; and so Bertha and her 
father and mother settled down to a few days of 


84 


A DEBT OE HONOUR. 


intense quiet in the old house, amid the sunny 
gardens rich with roses. Bertha passed her time 
in a methodical routine, busy, reticent, perfectly 
contented. Lady Agnes and the Squire loitered 
about together arm-in-arm, very happy to be alone 
for a little while. 

Dane, meanwhile, was having rather a bad time 
of it at home, which it is not necessary to enter 
upon in detail, for it was not at all agreeable. His 
people thought that he might have made a much 
better match than Bertha Falconer, and detei- 
mined that if worrying and bullying would make 
him alter his mind, it should be done. The attempt 
was ineffectual, however ; Dane, with all his 
amiability, being doggedly obstinate when his 
mind was set upon a thing. Scenes from morning 
to night for two or three days resulted in the right 
kind of letters being written to Falconer Hall, and 
Bertha being invited for as long a stay as she was 
willing to make at Hazleton Court. While this 
was going on, Jack, who happened to be the only 
visitor at the Court, smoked incessantly, wandered 
about in the gardens and stables, and thought of 
Lily. When replies came from Falconer Court — 
the one from Bertha demurely postponing her 
visit for six weeks — Dane having had a sort of 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 85 

final rout with his relations, came out to Jack, who 
was idling in the stables, and suggested flight. 

Dear boy ! ” he said, in delight at the thought, 
‘‘ it’s the 1st of September the day after to-morrow. 
I’m due at Rex Harburton’s shooting-box. Come 
with me. We shall have a splendid time, and 
you’ll be welcome as flowers in May. Only say 
you’re in the humour, and I’ll go and wire to him 
now.” 

Jack reflected a moment. He was not due any- 
where for a week. London was empty ; Falconer 
Hall impossible. He was very welcome where he 
was, for they were all fond of him. But lie passed 
his days chiefly in avoiding tUe-drtUe interviews 
with Lady Drusilla, who bored him to distraction, 
and seemed to find a strange delight in doing so. 
In the innocence of his heart, which was all- 
absorbed with thoughts of Lily, he took this for a 
hostess’s mistaken kindness. He decided to accept 
the second-hand invitation, which promised more 
diversion than anything else at the moment. 

And so the wire was sent, the invitation warmly 
confirmed by a return message, and the very next 
day the two young men went off to join the bach- 
elor party at Rex Harburton’s, 


86 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


IX. 

Once at Rex Harburtoii’s, there was no time for 
thought, and very little for idling about. They 
were a very bright set gathered there, and all keen 
sportsmen. The days were passed with the dogs 
and guns, and in the evenings there was plenty of 
fun. One or two of the men sang well, and one 
was a really amusing reciter, and when the day’s 
work had not worn them out, they were always 
ready to amuse the others. So that cards were 
not got out for quite a week. But at last, one 
night, Dane Hazleton suggested baccarat, and from 
that moment there was no more music, there were 
no more recitations, no animated discussions, 
scarcely any more desultory conversations. The 
twenty*four hours passed in walking the stubble- 
fields — lunch^ — dinner^ — and then the card-tables. 
That week of steady shooting and playing was one 
of keen pleasure and excitement. Jack, who had 
been bored on many of the merry evenings, was 
able now to forget his gnawing sorrow. He was 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 87 

a keen sportsman, and enjoyed his days ; but the 
evening and the night had been a terror to him. 
Now an absorbing passion, the strongest he knew 
of, stronger even than his love for Lily, took pos- 
session of him from the moment he entered the 
card-room till at last he threw himself, at grey 
dawn, exhausted on his bed. He could in this 
way banish all thoughts of his sweet Lily from his 
tortured mind and heart, and only remembered 
her dear face when he woke in the morning. Then 
it rose before him, and the longing that possessed 
him became too great to bear. Sometimes the 
sweet face seemed sad and reproachful — this was 
when he woke with a horrible qualm of conscience, 
knowing only too well that he had been losing 
more money than he could afford, and had broken 
his promise to Lily. This last fact annoyed him 
most of all, for he looked upon a promise to Lily 
as a really sacred thing, more sacred than any 
other oath could be. And yet he had broken it 
so easily ! This was but natural ; his was an un- 
stable nature, sensitive, keenly visited by remorse, 
and susceptible to every touch from outside, either 
for good or ill. In the green lanes of his home, 
fresh from Lily’s influence, and without any temp- 
tation, it would seem to him possible to keep his 


88 


A DEBT OF HONOUK. 


promise to her ; and in the card-room of Rex Har- 
burton’s hunting-box, among a set of men who 
looked upon gambling as one of the essentials of 
life, the idea of keeping it seemed perfectly foolish, 
even if it occurred to him for a moment. But, as 
a matter of fact, it very seldom did, the joy of the 
cards to him being that they made him forget 
everything. From the time he entered the room 
where the card-table was set, he forgot everything 
else in the world. All trouble fell from him ; Lily 
existed no longer ; he knew nothing of his love 
and his longing for her, he knew nothing of his 
vows to her — all was a blank outside the one in- 
tense, profound fascination which was held and 
bounded by the table before him. Oh, the delight 
of it ! We can all find oblivion — or perhaps, I 
should say, nearly all of us — in some one intense, 
keen pleasure for which we are fitted by tempera- 
ment ; but probably the gambler’s is the deepest 
forgetfulness to be found in the whole world of 
sensation. Conscience, honour, love, duty, pride — 
all disappear before the passion for cards. 

For about a fortnight life went on evenly and 
quietly, the cards only absorbing two or three 
hours every night. The day’s work left the men 
too healthily tired out to care for more of it. But 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


89 


at the end of that time Lord Dane suddenly seemed 
to become possessed by the fever of gambling at 
its strongest. He would not leave the table. He 
succeeded in infecting Jack, Rex Harburton, and 
one or two others with the madness — for it is 
nothing else. They sat all night, and when the 
morning came locked the door, and refused to have 
the blinds drawn up, or even to hear of breakfast 
or shooting. The other men went out, but all 
that day these sat absorbed, silent, frenzied. They 
broke up in time to dress for dinner ; and Jack 
went to his room and bathed his head in cold 
water in a vain attempt to recover some calmness 
of mind. That was impossible. Now that the 
delirium was over, all that had been forgotten 
rushed back with tenfold force. Conscience, love, 
pride, duty, woke up with terrii)le strength from 
their sleep and rapped at the door of his heart, till 
he felt maddened and desperate. The image of 
Lily rose before him — so sad, so reproachful ! He 
thought of his mother and groaned aloud. And 
then he thought of the Squire. His memory made 
him straighten himself up and begin to walk hur- 
riedly to and fro in the room. What was to be 
done ? The thought of his father brought him 
very quickly face to face with actual realities. 


90 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


Could he go home? Impossible! He had risen 
from that card-table five thousand pounds in debt 
to Lord Dane. It was useless and impossible to 
go home and tell his father such a thing, after 
what had happened before — absolutely useless^ 
Should he escape, then, and make his way to the 
Colonies, or go abroad somewhere ? Equally im- 
possible. It might have been practicable — think- 
able, at all events — if the money had been owing 
for tradesmen’s bills. But this was a debt of 
honour ! 

He was stupefied, stunned, unable to understand 
anything more than that this was the position, and 
that it was quite impossible for him to run away. 

Presently a servant came to tell him dinner 
was nearly ready, and to help him to dress. He 
submitted mechanically, and indeed at last found 
relief to the racking torture of his mind in talking 
about trifles to the man. 

The dinner was a particularly gay one, for both 
those who had won and those who had lost felt it 
equally necessary to be very cheerful, and hide all 
extremes of feeling from each other, and also from 
the other men who had been out all day. Nothing 
was said about the cards, so that only those who 
had sat at table knew how high the stakes had run. 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


91 


But of course Jack was well aware that as soon as 
the party broke up into groups after dinner it was 
all talked over, and that before bedtime that night 
every man in the party was aware of the amount 
he had lost, and that he had not paid it, but given 
his I O U. He went to his bed worn out witli 
excitement and exhaustion, and slept profoundly. 

But when he woke, early the next morning, the 
sun shining in at his window, and the birds singing 
outside it, it was with the bittei'est pang of recol- 
lection that he had ever known in his life. 

The position was hopeless. What was to be 
done ? There was no way : nothing that could be 
done. 

His pride prevented his showing his despair. 
He got up, went down to breakfast, and went out 
with the shooting party. In the course of the day 
Lord Dane told him that Bertha had come to his 
people on her promised visit sooner than he had 
hoped for, and that he proposed, in consequence, 
to return home immediately. Would Jack go with 
him? Jack turned it over in his mind, and ac- 
cepted. He decided suddenly to do a thing which 
would never have occurred to him before. We 
never know what resources we have about us till 
we are driven to the last* 


92 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


He determined to confide in Bertha. She had 
money of her own ; some way might be found in 
which she could help him. And it would be to 
her interest to do so, it seemed to him, for the 
credit of the family, as she was to marry Dane. 

It was a forlorn, a desperate hope. But with no 
alternative, it was well worth trying. So Jack 
agreed to go back with Dane the very next day. 


A DEBT OP HONOUR. 


93 


CHAPTER X. 

Bert ha sat in her dressing-room in the splendid 
house of which she was now already a part and 
parcel, and of which she might one day be the 
chalelaine. She could not help thinking of this 
far-off possibility ; it was characteristic of her cal- 
culating nature to do so. Already she delighted 
in the sense of power, the strongest passion she 
possessed. Falconer Hall seemed to her a very 
poor place beside this magnificent pile, in which 
she now felt she had her home. 

Bertha’s cold beauty was of the class that does 
not vary, that has no waxing or waning, which 
remains untouched by emotion or fatigue. Sitting 
now before her glass, mechanically combing out 
her hair before her maid came to dress it, she looked 
exactly the same as when she sat in her Sunday- 
school teaching the children the way they should 
go, although her mind was absorbed by the most 
worldly ideas. But then, to her, with her evenly- 


94 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


balanced mind and her narrowly limited intellect, 
her worldly calculations seemed most entirely just, 
reasonable, and righteous. 

Before her maid came to make her ready for her 
first public appearance in the great house which 
she already looked upon as her own, an imperative 
knock came to the door, and without waiting for 
an answer Lady Drusilla entered. 

She came and sat down in a lounging chair by 
the dressing-table, and talked hurriedly, irrele- 
vantly, and as Bertha, in her self-contained calm- 
ness, thought, rather oddly, for some minutes. 
Then she suddenly said — 

“ My dear Bertha, I want you to tell me some- 
thing. Why did your brother go away so sud- 
denly?” 

Bertha looked up, and stared in genuine amaze- 
ment. 

“Dear Lady Drusilla,” she said, “I did not 
imagine there was any possible reason beyond that 
Dane was going to Mr. Harburton’s, and Jack 
liked going with him.” 

“ Oh, but there was,” said Lady Drusilla, rather 
excitedly. “ I am sure of it. He went in such a 
hurry. Bertha, you are a sensible girl. I feel 
that you will not treat these things in the frivolous 


A DEBT OP HONOUR. 


95 


way most girls would.” She got up and began to 
walk about the room as she talked. Bertha, who 
was completely in the dark about the whole situa- 
tion, sat still and watched her in the greatest per- 
plexity. She said nothing, although Lady Drusilla 
paused, but waited for her to go on. 

‘‘ You know, Bertha,” said Lady Drusilla, after 
a few moments of agitated promenading, ‘‘I look 
upon you already as a sister, and therefore I feel 
I can speak out to you as I never have been able 
to anyone, never having had a sister of my own. 
Mamma has always been very good to me, but we 
had such a difficulty over a trouble that is now 
quite old that I have never been able to talk to 
her since. It was a stupid affair — she was right, 
and I was wrong — but it soured me and has made 
me terribly alone and isolated. Let me talk to you, 
Bertha. You have come fresh into my life, and I 
want to feel as if I can confide in you. I do feel 
so ; you seem to be older than your years, and 
really sensible. You must know that I am much 
too rich ; no woman with my money can hope to 
be happy, unless, indeed, she takes her fortunes 
into her own hands and compels Fate to her will. 
I am beginning to feel I must do this. Why should 


96 


A DEBT OP HONOtTR. 


I be wretched all my life just because I am rich ? 
A miserable fortune-hunter broke my heart years 
ago — a wretch who would have acted any lie for a 
five-pound note ; but, after all, that is no reason 
why I should look on every man as a fortune-hunter 
and a liar as long as I live — is it, Bertha ? ” 

She stood still by Bertha’s chair at the end of 
this long speech, her hands clasped in tragic 
appeal. Bertha, who had watched her very atten- 
tively, but who could not yet guess why this sudden 
confidence was given to herself, answered, very 
quietly — 

“ Certainly not. Some men do not care for 
money at all.” 

“ Do you think your brother does ? ” asked Lady 
Drusilla, abruptly. 

“What — JackV'^ exclaimed Bertha, revealing, 
by her accentuation, the fact that Jack was a per- 
son whom she scarcely counted at all in her reckom 
ing up of humanity. 

“ Yes, Jack,” replied Lady Drusilla, firmly and 
rather humbly. “ I want you to tell me the truth, 
Bertha — just exactly what you think.” 

Even yet, Bertha, with all her shrewdness, did 
not grasp the situation. She therefore, with 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 97 

characteristic caution, determined to reply very 
carefully. 

“ Does Jack care for money ? ” she said, as if to 
herself, very slowly. “ Why, no ; I don’t think he 
does — ^indeed, I am sure he does not. He is too 
impetuous and emotional to care about pounds, 
shillings, and pence. No ; if Jack cared for money 
as he ought, he wouldn’t get into half the scrapes 
he does.” 

“ I am very glad to hear you say that,” said Lady 
Drusilla, sitting down again, and looking at Bertha 
very thoughtfully and earnestly. ‘‘ I am glad I 
have spoken to you about it. You have reassured 
me. For I am certain you say what you mean.” 

She spoke hurriedly, for the maid had entered 
the room now, and was making preparations for 
Bertha’s toilette. 

‘‘ I have a great deal to say to you,” said Lady 
Drusilla, “but there’s no time now. We’ll have 
another talk to-morrow. You will get on with 
Mamma, Bertha, and that is a very good thing for 
you. She likes quiet, reserved, haughty people, 
and you are just her style.” 

Bertha smiled to herself as Lady Drusilla went 
out of the door. Of course she would “get on 


98 


A DEBT OF HONOUK. 


with Mamma” ! Having made up her mind to 
marry Lord Dane, no minor difficulties in the way 
of relations or anything of that sort would stand 
in her way. She intended to study everybody. 
She gave a good deal of thought to Lady Drusilla. 
It was evident that the poor woman was terribly 
lonely, and was longing for a confidante. Bertha 
had no hesitation in being that confidante. She 
saw that the position might be one of great value 
in the future. At the same time, she could not 
guess what it was that was now preying on Lady 
Drusilla’s mind. Evidently there was something 
which she must speak about, or else suffer beyond 
bearing from suppressed emotion. Bertha gave up 
puzzling about it after a few minutes, concluding 
that she would be sure to hear about it all at the 
next opportunity, and that it was perfectly useless 
to puzzle her brains in the meantime. So she gave 
up her whole mind to her own affairs— her appear- 
ance, her manner, what she should do and say, and 
dismissed everyone else from her considerations. 

She was a great success that night. Her icy 
hauteur was justly tempered with submission 
towards those to whom respect was due, and her 
proud beauty was carried as if only the fit orna- 


A DEBT OF HOKOUR. 


99 


ment for her future position. “ How Dane ever 
had the pluck to ask that girl to marry him ! ” was 
the amazement of his brother, expressed sub rosa 
many times during the evening. “ Why, I’d hardly 
have pluck myself. She might be a duchess in her 
own right, and have the wealth of a Rotlischild.” 

The next day, before Lady Drusilla had had 
any chance of another tete-d-tete with her future 
sister-in-law, Lord Dane and Jack arrived. It 
was looked upon as perfectly natural that Dane 
should return suddenly when he heard that Bertha 
had arrived, and Jack was welcomed warmly as her 
brother. In fact, Bertha was the princess of the 
moment, and held all the reins. Jack was more 
convinced tlian ever that she was the only person 
it was the slightest use for him to appeal to. If 
she did not help him, he could see notliing for it 
but a bullet through his head. Of course, with his 
capacity for pleasure and excitement and his love 
of life, he never seriously contemplated suicide, 
although no doubt he thought he did. It is very 
different to actually face the idea and to look upon 
it as the only resort. To him it certainly seemed 
the only resort if Bertha could suggest nothing ; 
but he hoped and longed for a way to escape, 


100 


A DEBT OP HONOUR. 


though he could not yet guess what it might be. 
He looked upon Bertha as a person of much greater 
shrewdness than himself — and in this he was right, 
indeed — and he had a despairing conviction that 
she would find him some painful way out of his 
trouble. Why he should be so certain that it 
would be painful I cannot tell, except that he knew 
Bertha’s temper too well to hope for any help from 
her that was not forced. What she would do for 
him she would only do for her own sake, because 
she had so much at stake ; and he had no hope that 
she would make it easy for him. Bertha liked 
punishing too well to let him off what he so richly 
deserved. 

As may be imagined under these circumstances. 
Jack arrived in a somewhat gloomy and depressed 
humour. After dinner, on the first evening he was 
there. Lady Drusilla, who had not been able to 
come to her dressing-room, seized an opportunity, 
and said to Bertha — 

‘‘My dear, what is the matter with your 
brother ? ” 

Bertha opened her eyes. She never regarded 
Jack’s humours as being worthy of much atten- 
tion. 


A DEBT OF HONOUB. 101 

I am sure I don’t know,” she answered. 

“ I have a suspicion,” said Lady Drusilla, ‘‘ from 
something Dane said. Fin sure they’ve been 
gambling a great deal at Rex Harburton’s.” 

“ Oh! ” exclaimed Bertha. “If that is so, then 
Jack is certain to have lost a lot of money.” She 
stopped herself, and bit her lip. She wanted to 
express her feelings about Jack, and call him the 
fool she thought him ; but she did not intend to 
earn the reputation of having a bad temper, in this 
family. Bertha was one of those clever people 
who, by concealing their anger, can make it twice 
as effectual — no, twenty times, for anger spent in 
words is all but exhausted. It is the anger of 
silent persons which is really sinister and intimi- 
dating. 

“ Find out from him,” said Lady Drusilla, 
eagerly, “ and tell me. Will you ? [ have a 

reason for wanting to know. Do find out as soon 
as possible ! ” 

“ I will do what I can,” said Bertha, in much 
perplexity. Lady Drusilla’s mind was still a 
sealed book to her. 

Jack, though quite determined to speak to 
Bertha, felt, when he thought of doing it, much 


102 


A DEBT OF HONOUK. 


like a horse when he shirks a jump which he 
knows has to be taken. He fenced about, looking 
this way and that, and seizing upon any excuse for 
putting off the dreadful moment. 

It had, however, to come at last ; and after 
letting a whole day go by without making an 
effort. Jack suddenly took his courage in both 
hands. 

‘‘ Bertha,” said he, after luncheon the second 
day, ‘‘ come for a walk with me. I wa* . to talk 
to you.” 

The idea of going for a walk with Jack would 
have seemed to her perfectly preposterous and a 
mere waste of time under other circumstances. 
But she saw that there was something on his mind 
wliich it would be well for her to hear about, so 
she agreed at once. She went and put on her 
walking dress. Jack lit a cigar, and the two walked 
out into the park in the most fraternal fashion. 
Once out of sight of the house, Bertha, who dis- 
liked walking, came to a dead halt. A fallen tree 
seemed to her sufficient comfort as a seat, and, 
rather than walk any farther, she established her- 
self upon it. Jack walked up and down in front 
of her, smoking. 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


103 


‘‘Come, Jack, what is it?” she said, impa- 
tiently. “ Don’t waste rny time ; I’ve hundreds 
of things to do. What have you to tell me ? ” 

“ I’m in trouble, Bertha,” said Jack, taking his 
cigar out of his mouth and staring at it. 

“ Gambling debts again, I suppose ?” said Ber- 
tha, contemptuously, 

“ Yes,” said Jack, with a sigh of relief that the 
murder was so soon out. 

You will always be a fool, that’s evident,” said 
Bertha, viciously. “ I imagine, however, that you 
have done for yourself at home this time.” - 

“ I suppose so,” said Jack, gloomily; “that’s 
why I wanted to talk to you.” 

“ And why to me ? ” said Bertha, coldly. “ What 
possible interest can your senseless gambling debts 
have for me ?” 

“ You must help me^” answered Jack, desper- 
ately. 

“ Why, why, why ? How can I, and why should 
I? ” cried Bertha, now really angry. 

“ Because I owe the money to Dane,” replied 
Jack. 

“ To Dane ! ” cried Bertha, in a tone of horror, 
which showed that at last she felt herself con- 
cerned. “ How much is it ? ” 


104 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


“ Five thousand,” said Jack. Bertha made no 
answer this time. She sat and stared at him. 

“ It’s got to be paid,” said Jack, gloomily. It’s 
a debt of honour.” 

I know that,” said Bertha. “ But what’s to 
be done ? ” 

Well,” said Jack, awkwardly, “I’ve thought 
it out, and there is only one way. You’ve got 
money coming to you, Bertha, of your own ; 
couldn’t we raise enough on that? Under the cir- 
cumstances, I thought perhaps — of course, if it 
was anyone but Dane, I wouldn’t ask you.” 

Bertha rose slowly from the fallen tree on which 
she had been sitting, her eyes fixed on him. She 
stood still as a statue for a moment, with a steady 
gaze which sadly disconcerted him. 

“ You are mistaken,” she said, in a clear, cold 
voice, “ if you think I am going to impoverish my- 
self to pay your gambling debts. You must find 
some other way out of the difficulty. Don’t look 
to me ! ” 

And so saying, she turned and walked back to 
the house, leaving Jack to finish his cigar. But it 
had gone out, though only half consumed, and he 
threw it away into the yellow bracken. What a 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


105 


chill, dreary autumn day it seemed, as he. stood 
and looked round him ! Was it possible that he 
had indeed tempted Fate too much — that he had 
gone too far, that no helping hand was to be held 
out to him, that the waters of despair were actually 
closing over his head ? 


106 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


XL 

Bertha walked off in a storm of righteous indig- 
nation, and full of a most determined resolution 
that she would not sacrifice herself in any way for 
her reckless brother. These feelings upheld her 
quite halfway to the house, and she stepped quickly, 
her head held high, and an unusual colour in her 
cheeks. But before she reached the broad gravel 
terrace which surrounded the house her face began 
to grow pale and her step grew slower. It was 
dawning upon her that the situation was not at all 
a pleasant one for herself, and might become much 
more unpleasant if no way out of the diflSculty 
could be found. Something must be done^ — some 
plan must be thought of. Her sense of family 
pride began to stir within her, and a rush of 
shame came over her at the idea of being so 
indebted to people who thought themselves so 
much better than herself and her family. Her 
engagement to Dane being so entirely a matter of 


107 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 

business with her made the sting much sharper 
than it might have been. Possibly if she had 
cared for him at all she might have thought over 
the idea of speaking to him about the matter, of 
effecting some arrangement. 

But as it was, slie would as soon have thought 
of going to a tradesman to get him to let Jack off 
some heavy bill, with the added trial of the trades- 
man being a prince in disguise, who would be 
delighted to patronise her. But even that was no 
parallel, for her blood turned cold as she remem- 
bered that this was no ordinary debt, but a debt of 
honour. It simply must be paid. But how? And 
now she found herself in as great a perplexity as 
Jack was. 

The idea which had come to him of help through 
herself she did not consider for a moment. Even 
if she had been willing to do this (and even for 
the sake of such a marriage she did not feel she 
was), she knew it was impossible. She had a 
.much better head for business than her brother, 
and she knew quite well that she could not touch 
her money without her father’s knowledge. And 
her father! Well, in her own wise mind Bertha 
despised him almost as much as she did Jack. For 


108 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


she knew that he would not attempt to control 
himself for worldly motives ; that he would throw 
Jack over altogether, disinherit him, and perfectly 
disregard the consequences to Bertha and to her 
position and future. At all hazards, her father 
must be kept in ignorance, if possible. Bertha 
stood quite still a moment on the terrace, thinking 
intently. She realised fully that if she could not 
invent a way out of the difficulty, no one else 
would. It all lay with herself. And she realised 
with equal distinctness that she saw no way 
whatever. 

Most of us have experienced the intense annoy- 
ance of going down a cul-de-sac^ and finding a 
blank wall in front. That was where Bertha found 
herself ; and with the knowledge that she could 
not turn round and go back, the wall must be 
scaled or broken through. But how? — how? — 
how? For the first time in her even, well-cared- 
for life Bertha felt the keen tooth of real difficulty. 
She could have torn her hair with anger and 
dismay as she stood there so silently, seemingly 
lost in a quiet reverie. She was amazed herself 
at the tide of emotion which rose within her, 
though she succeeded in preserving her calm 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


109 


exterior. She knew veiy well that a whole range 
of windows commanded the terrace. Rousing her- 
self with an effort, she moved towards the house, 
hoping to get to her own room without meeting 
anyone. For she wanted to think undisturbed. 
But a very close observer had been watching her 
from one of the library windows, and now came 
hurrying out to meet her — Lady Drusilla, with a 
shawl hastily thrown over her shoulders. She 
approached Bertha with a deprecating smile, and 
put her hand affectionately on her arm. 

“ Don’t go in yet, Bertha,” she said. It’s a 
lovely day. Come for a walk with me in the long 
avenue.” 

Bertha yielded without protest, although not at 
all in the humour for conversation. But she saw 
that Lady Drusilla was nervous and had something 
she wished to say. It might be of use to hear it, 
though it was hard to conjecture how. But in 
Bertha’s present state of mind she felt it necessary 
to lose no chance. Was there some secret in the 
family, something which Lady Drusilla felt it right 
to tell her ? This idea flashed into her mind, and 
though she scarcely entertained it seriously, still 
her curiosity was roused. If she had some power 


110 


A DEBT OF HONOtJR. 


in her hands, perhaps she might be able to use it. 
With this vague idea she went, arm-in-arm with 
Lady Drusilla, across the grass into the long 
avenue. This was an admirable place for a pii- 
vate iiiterview, public though it seemed ; and Lady 
Drusilla showed her wisdom in choosing it. Walk- 
ing to and fro here under the great old trees, it was 
impossible to be overheard, for anyone approaching 
could be seen a long way off. Lady Drusilla talked 
about all sorts of irrelevant subjects, and Bertha 
scarcely listened to what she said, only keeping 
note that nothing serious was touched upon. This 
lasted till the middle of the avenue, when Lady 
Drusilla suddenly drew her hand from Bertha’s 
arm, turned to face her, and said — 

‘‘ Tell me what your brother’s trouble is. You 
have been out with him, talking, and I am sure he 
has told you. Do tell me, Bertha, honestly, what 
it is. Perhaps I can help you.” 

She spoke in the most agitated manner, vehe- 
mently ; and Bertha looked at her in great per- 
plexity. She was too cautious by nature to like 
to have her hand forced, and she wanted Lady 
Drusilla to say a great deal more before she, on 
her side, revealed anytliing. So she adopted the 


A DEBT OP HONOUR. 


Ill 


wise plan of a masterly inactivity. She stood still, 
and fixed her eyes on Lady Drusilla, showing her 
perplexity very plainly in her face. They botli 
remained silent for a moment or two, and then 
Lady Drusilla, as Bertha calculated, was forced by 
her agitation to speak again — 

‘‘ You think me very prying and inquisitive, I 
suppose. I know it cannot even seem like good 
manners ; and for me, too, who have always been 
so reserved since I learned my bitter lesson ! I 
have never cared for anybody, and I would not 
pretend to; but now I do in earnest. I can’t help 
it, and I’m not going to try. Why should I make 
my life a misery ?” 

She seemed to be talking to herself as much as 
to Bertha ; but now, after breaking off for a mo- 
ment, and relapsing into a brief, deep silence, she 
addressed herself directly to her companion. 

I want you to confide in me,” she said, looking 
straight at her. “ Believe me, Bertha, you will be 
wise in doing so. If you will trust me, I will con- 
fide in you entirely. It will be best for us all in 
the end. Will you?” 

Bertha returned her gaze very earnestly while 
she thought this over. She was forced to think 


112 


A DEBT OE HONOXTR. 


more quickly than she had ever thought in her 
life. What should she do? Lady Drusilla was a 
high-bred woman ; not one to cajole a confidence, 
and use it to a mean end, after the fashion, alas ! 
of the miserable every-day creatures we meet call- 
ing themselves men and women. Bertha con- 
sidered this point; she decided that it would be 
well to trust the plain, aristocratic, unattractive 
face before her, or, at all events, to half trust it. 
It would not have been like Bertha to do more. 

Perhaps it will be best,” she said, ‘though it is 
not what I should have thought of talking about to 
you. It is gambling debts.” 

“ I thought so,” said Lady Drusilla, eagerly, and 
as if delighted. ‘‘Tell me, how much are they? 
No ! don’t hesitate to speak — it is for your brother’s 
good that I ask.” 

Bertha told her ; and then Lady Drusilla relapsed 
into a silence, quite as agitated as her conversation 
had been, which puzzled Bertha profoundly. It 
never occurred to Lady Drusilla — to Bertha’s great 
relief — to ask to whom the money was owing. 
Why should it indeed? It was only Bertha’s own 
uneasy apprehensions which made her think such 
a question at all likely. 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


113 


While Lady Drusilla was thinking, in evident 
agitation of mind, and trying to decide how to 
express what she had to say, a figure appeared on 
the terrace, and hastily cut across the grass to the 
avenue. It was Dane, who had been looking for 
Bertha all through these two interviews, in which 
more time had been consumed than she supposed. 

I promised to go for a drive with Lord Dane, 
and it is long past the time,” exclaimed Bertha, 
as she caught sight of him. 

You must go, then,” said Lady Drusilla. “ I 
don’t want to have him wondering what we are 
talking about. Will you go up to dress for dinner 
early, or had I better come to you at bedtime ? I 
think that would be best, for I have a great deal 
to say.” 

“ Very well,” said Bertha ; “ I’ll go to bed early, 
and shall expect you.” 

“I have been hunting for you everywhere, 
Bertha,” said Lord Dane, reproachfully. ‘‘ Don’t 
you care to go out to-day ? ” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Bertha. “ But I did not know 
the time. I am quite ready.” 

Lord Dane’s mail phaeton was standing at the 

hall-door, with a splendid pair of horses in it and 
8 


114 


A DEBT OF HQJl^OUE. 


the smartest of small tigers sitting up behind. 
Lord Dane was fond of driving, and he delighted 
in taking Bertha out with him. When he was 
driving his favourite horses, and had her by his 
side, he felt he was really showing the good style of 
his possessions. Any other girl than Bertha would 
have been very much bored by these drives, for 
there was so little in common between this engaged 
couple that they seldom exchanged a remark, and 
absolutely never held any conversation. But she 
was quite content; perfectly dressed, perfectly 
appointed, holding herself in the most stately 
manner, she sat beside him in polite silence. She 
always had enough thoughts of her own to occupy 
her mind, living as she did in a busy world of 
selfishness and small details concerning herself; 
to-day she had more to think of than ever. She 
was full of conjectures and speculations as to what 
Lady Drusilla could possibly have to say to her. 
No amount of conjecture enlightened her on the 
subject, however, and she had to suppress a curiosity 
keener than any she had ever known till the time 
when it would be gratified. 


A DEBT OP HOKOUB. 


116 


XIL 

And Lily Barton, at home in her quiet nest, what 
was slie thinking about ? What was she doing ? 

Well, she was thinking of Jack all the time, 
night and day. Sleep had deserted her. She lay 
on her white pillows, and looked through her little 
lattice windows at the stars night after night, and 
rose in the morning with weary, unrested eyes. 
She grew paler and thinner every day ; her beauty 
became transparent, unearthly. 

Lady Agnes, sitting in her pew at church, caught 
sight of Lily’s face every time she raised her eyes ; 
its pallid delicacy troubled her so that she could 
not control her thoughts, or keep her mind on any 
other subject. W as the poor child fading ; was her 
heart broken ? Well, if so, nothing else could have 
been done, she herself had acted in the only possible 
way ; this was all the consolation she could think 
of. It should have been enough ; but it was not. 


116 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


The girl’s white, resigned face tormented her in her 
dreams. 

One morning she awoke so full of thoughts of 
Lily that she decided to see her, and try to talk her 
into a more reasonable frame of mind. Immedh 
ately after breakfast she ordered her pony carriage, 
and drove into the village. When she drew up 
before the Bartons’ door, either Mrs. Barton or 
Lily always came out to her. To-day Lily was 
standing in the entrance, and she came to her im- 
mediately, smiling, and sweet as ever ; but such 
a white Lily ! so frail, so like a summer garden- 
flower over which a storm has broken, shattering 
its strength, though not destroying its waxen 
beauty. 

“ Lily,” said Lady Agnes, looking very earnestly 
at her, I want so much to talk to you. I am quite 
alone at the Hall this morning. Will you put on 
your hat and drive back with me ? ” 

“ Yes, if you wish it, my Lady,” said Lily, 
without hesitation, and without eagerness, with 
that resignation of manner which is more terrible 
than despair. There was no possibility of false 
hope in her heart, for she knew just what might be 
hoped for and what might not. 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


117 


“ Come with me now, then,” said Lady Agnes ; 
and Lily went back quickly into the house. She 
told her mother, who came out and talked to Lady 
Agnes about the weather and the poultry, with a 
mother’s wit, saying no word about Lily. 

Very soon Lily returned. She was dressed all 
in white, for the weather was still hot. It made 
her look perhaps more delicate than a darker dress 
would have done; at all events, her appearance 
sent a fresh pang to Lady Agnes’s kind heart as 
the girl got into the carriage beside her. They 
only talked of little every-day matters as they 
drove through the village. Lady Agnes had set 
her heart on getting Lily alone in her own room, 
where she could talk to her freely before opening 
the subject whicl) she desired to speak of. 

As they drove up to the house, Lily fell into a 
silence she could not conquer, and her monosyllabic 
answers soon made Lady Agnes as silent as her- 
self. It was a long while since she had been to 
the Hall. And to drive there like this beside 
Lady Agnes, in her own carriage, affected her 
strangely. Unselfish as she was, yet she could not 
help thinking of it. How different her position 
might have been if her love-dream had bloomed 


118 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


into a reality ! But it was not to be ; and she set 
her little white teeth hard upon her lower lip, and 
tried to bear the pain like a Spartan. Lady Agnes 
felt the struggle that the girl was going through, 
and was sufficiently sympathetic to be well able to 
realise what it meant. She whipped up her ponies 
and said nothing. 

The Squire had gone on some magisterial busi- 
ness to a neighbouring town, and was to lunch at a 
friend’s, so that Lady Agnes was entirely alone, 
and knew she had plenty of time. She took Lily 
into the gardens, through the poultry-yard and 
greenhouses, talking pleasantly to her all the 
while. At last she led her into her own quiet 
morning-room, and made her sit down and take 
her hat off. 

Now, my dear,” she said, “ I want you to talk 
to me just as if I were your own mother. Tell me 
all about yourself. But, first, why are you so pale ? 
Are you breaking your heart for Jack ? ” 

Lily hesitated ; looked up at her ; hesitated again. 
But Lady Agnes waited for an answer. 

“ I suppose so,” the girl said, with a sort of des- 
perate courage ; “ yes, I suppose so. Oh ! but can 
I help it? Do you think I can help it? No, I 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 119 

cannot. I know it is wrong, I know it is useless, 
but I love him ! ” 

Her hands, clasped in her lap, were clutched 
passionately together. Lady Agnes stooped and 
put one of hers on them. 

‘‘ My dear,” she said, very sadly, you know I 
understand you. I sympathise with you ; I know 
what love is. It is not all that do, but you and I 
do. I know the agony of parting. The despair of 
utter loss I never have known — that is yours to 
bear. My dear, could anything else be?” 

She sat down beside her and began to talk, very 
earnestly, saying all that she had rehearsed in her 
own mind beforehand. 

‘‘You know, Lily— -surely you are wise enough 
to realise — that even if Jack were able to marry 
you it would not be a happy lot for you. I want 
you to face this fact bravely, like the true, good 
girl that you are. You will be twenty times as 
happy in the end if you marry in your own class 
in life. There is never any satisfaction to be found 
in going out of our own rank. There is so much 
to learn, so much to suffer ! ” 

“Surely, my Lady,” said Lily, “you know me 
well enough to know I had no ambition to marry 


120 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


out of my own rank. I always knew it was all 
impossible, and was very unhappy about it from 
the first for that reason.” 

‘‘ I have made a mistake, child, in saying what I 
did,” said Lady Agnes, in great distress, for Lily’s 
voice showed she had been hurt. Forgive me, I 
hardly know where to begin in what I have to say. 
I want to persuade you that you have all your fair 
young life before you, for happiness and pleasure 
and contentment, if only you will root this unhappy 
passion out of your heart. I cannot bear to see 
you fading as you are, and it is cruel folly. What 
I would like you to do is to go right away from 
here for a while, among people who will make you 
forget. It can be done, indeed, my dear. It does 
not seem so when we are young, but, truly, it is 
possible to forget any love, however deep. Time 
cures all things.” 

‘‘Well, it may be so,” said Lily, very quietly ; 
“ but I must have time.” 

“ Why, yes, of course,” said Lady Agnes. “ I 
know it is all very recent. But you are getting 
worse, dear child, and I want to see you getting 
better. You must not grow pale and fragile like 
this, all for the sake of that foolish dear boy. You 


A DEBT OF HONOUU. 


121 


will break your mother’s heart. I know she is 
fretting over it terribly, though she has said 
nothing to me. Be courageous, dear child. Will 
you let me plan a change and a visit for you, and 
talk to your mother about it ? ” 

“ If you wish it,” said Lily, submissively. “ But 
indeed I think mother would fret more if I was 
away. And I don’t think father could spare me. 
You see, I never have been away from home, my 
Lady.” 

Lady Agnes sighed. ‘‘ My unfortunate boy, to 
bring misery into such a happy household as 
yours ! What can I do or suggest? ” 

“ Nothing,” said Lily, quietly, but very reso- 
lutely. “ Indeed there is no healing this wound. 
It is one of those which cannot be touched. Dear 
Lady Agnes, let me suffer quietly ; it is the kindest 
thing.” 

These last words were spoken less as a child to 
one she looked up to, more as by one woman to 
another. Lady Agnes was startled by the inten- 
sity of the tone, by the depth of despair which was 
in it. 

My dear,” she exclaimed, “ you must shake 
this off. I remember you told me it would kill 


122 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


you. I believe you are letting that fancy affect 
you; you must not. You will frighten yourself 
into being ill.” 

Lily smiled a faint, far-away smile. 

“ Oh ! no,” she said. No, it is not that. It is 
simply this — I can’t live without him. Lady Agnes ! 
I suppose it is very wicked and wrong, and I do 
struggle desperately hard against it ; but I can’t 
live without him. All the light and sunshine has 
gone out of my life, and I simply suffer. I don’t 
know why I should feel like this ; but help it I 
cannot. It is an agony never to see him, never to 
hear his voice ! Oh ! forgive me for speaking like 
this.” 

And then the bitter sobs came, that seem as if 
the physical heart is being torn to pieces. 

Lady Agnes sat still, speechless, stupefied before 
this strong emotion, which was so unexpected in 
this fragile girl, and seemed indeed as though it 
would shatter her slight frame. It was one of 
those moments when there is nothing to be done 
or said. 


A DEBT OF HONOUB. 


123 


XIII. 

Bertha saw no more of Lady Drusilla till after- 
noon tea, when there was a very merry assemblage 
round the tea-table in the great oak-panelled hall, 
one of the beauties of the house. When Bertha 
came in from her drive, still wearing her out-of- 
door dress, she found Lady Drusilla pouring out 
the tea, and Jack carrying about the cups and 
cake. He had thrown off his anxiety and misery 
for the moment, and seemed quite gay and light- 
hearted, like his old self. It was not in his nature 
to retain the gloom of his dark moments when 
among others; and, besides, it would have been 
much too remarkable even if he had felt inclined 
to do so, for Jack was always regarded as the life 
and soul of any party he was in. So that Bertha 
felt no surprise at hearing him laughing and 
chattering much the same as usual. What did 
interest her, however, was the look in Lady 


124 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


Drusilla’s face — an animated, eager look, rather 
nervous, too— one that she had never seen on it 
before. What could it mean, and what was the 
wonderful secret which soon she would hear, 
now ? 

Bertha disposed herself in a large arm-chair, and 
accepted a cup of tea from Lord Dane with all the 
manner of an assured grande dame^ in spite of the 
doubts and difficulties which were troubling her. 
And indeed she had so profound a confidence in 
herself and her own fate that she felt sure some- 
thing would happen to sweep Jack and his diffi- 
culties out of the way, and enable her to go on 
uninterruptedly in her way of glory. 

And this was so ; but little did she imagine what 
it was that was about to happen, nor could she 
have guessed, tried she never so earnestly. This, 
of course, was largely because such a nature as 
Lady Drusilla’s was a sealed book to her. Such 
passions and emotions as guided Lady Drusilla 
were not only unknown to Bertha, but unimagi- 
nable to her. How, then, could she guess at what 
would possibly have been easily apprehended by a 
woman of a different temperament ? All she could 
do was to wait until she should be enlightened. 


A DEBT OF HONOTTB. 


125 


Which she did with excellent philosophy, until 
Lady Drusilla rose and left the tea-table ; and then 
she, too, hastily got up and went to her room, fear- 
ful of missing the opportunity. 

In a few minutes Lady Drusilla came in. She 
had thrown aside her cloak and hat, and changed 
her dress for a rich blue silk wrapper, trimmed 
with fur, which was too brilliant and fine for her 
dark, plain face. She always looked older tlian 
she was. She herself often said that she must 
have been born old, for she had never seen her face 
with a look of youth in it, and the bright gown 
heightened this appearance. Bertha notice<l this 
as Lady Drusilla entered, and, devoid though she 
was of vanity, felt the pleasure which the sight of 
an older and plainer person of our own standing 
always gives us. In the most generous breast in 
the world, man or woman’s, the thought, however 
dimly recognised, I’m glad I’m not like that,'’ is 
agreeable. 

Bertha was sitting very comfortably in a low 
chair by the fire — a little bright fire which had 
only just been lit, for the evenings were beginning 
to be chilly — and she had all the appearance of a 
woman who was perfectly assured in her position 


126 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


and at ease in mind. Lady Drusilla, on the con- 
trary, could not sit still a moment, but kept 
moving restlessly about, with an tiir of anxiety and 
eagerness which would have led an outsider to 
think her a suppliant, afraid to ask for some help 
she needed. So deceptive are appearances ! Never- 
theless, Lady Drusilla had good reason for her 
uneasiness — she knew not how to begin what she 
had to say. In all her life she had never felt her- 
self so completely at a disadvantage. At last, con- 
trolling herself by a mighty effort, she came and 
sat down in a chair just opposite Lady Bertha. 

‘‘Now,” she began, “ I am going to talk to you 
as to a sensible woman, and delay no longer. It’s 
not easy, what I’ve got to say, but delay won’t 
make it any easier. And I mean to say it. Night 
and day have I thought it over — and I have 
decided ! ” 

As she said this, two bright red spots came out 
on her cheeks — hectic spots of excitement. 

“ I am sure,” she resumed, after a moment’s 
pause, “ that you are awfully troubled about your 
brother’s debts, though you conceal it very well. 
I confess I have been watching you very closely, 
for a reason of my own ; and you won’t resent my 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


127 


having done so when you know all. I can see you 
are suppressing an awful anxiety. You are very 
clever at doing it — oh, very clever ! I wish I had 
half your talent — but still, you couldn’t hide it 
from me. Well, I can guess the trouble. Your 
brother not only owes money which he cannot pay, 
which his father won’t pay for him, but he owes 
that money to Dane. Isn’t it so ? ” 

Bertha started, shrank back a little, and then 
collecting herself quickly, looked straight at Lady 
Drusilla. 

Dane has not told you ? ” she said, in a low 
voice. 

“No, indeed,” said Lady Drusilla; “you must 
know him better than that. But I guessed, and 
then I overheard some words between him and 
Jack. Well, I listened — I suppose it was unlady- 
like — but I had a powerful motive, and I shall be 
able to get you all out of the trouble, if you’ll let 
me.” 

Bertha looked at her in amazement which she 
could not conceal. Lady Drusilla suddenly rose 
and caught her arm. 

“ Bertha ! ” she exclaimed, “ you are so young, so 
handsome ; you cannot guess what a lonely woman 


128 A DEBT OF HONOUR. 

I am, and how my life is wasted ! I can’t bear it 
any longer. It is not often I like anyone. I hate 
most people ; but, Bertha, your brother has won his 
way to my heart as no one else ever has done. I 
feel gay and bright and happy when I am with 
him. His laugh and his merry eyes — oh, they 
change everything ! Bertha, I want you to find out 
if he could ever care for me. I know it must seem 
dreadful to you for a woman to talk like this ; but 
what can I do? I am cursed with too much money. 
If Jack had spoken to me, I should have refused 
him, no matter how much I cared for him. I 
should have refused him, as I have done everyone 
else, because I should have believed he only wanted 
my money. But now I do not fear this, otherwise 
in this trouble he would have been making love to 
me, as many other young men have done when 
they found themselves in difficulties. But I will 
do everything for him, if he could care for me. I 
will pay his debts, and no one shall ever know who 
has done it. For I have everything in my own 
control now. And I will make him rich for life. 
Oh, Bertha, I do want a home of my own, with 
someone to brighten it whom I could love ! Now, 
do you see how everything can be arranged ? But, 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


129 


Bertha dear, you must be very clever about it. 
You must keep my secret. Don’t tell him what I 
have told you, I implore you ! I trust you as one 
woman trusts another who is honourable. Don’t 
^uin everything by telling him too much.” 

Bertha sat back in her chair, speechless with 
surprise. She had never been so completely as- 
tonished in her life, and she could not immediately 
collect herself to reply.* But her quick brain saw 
the immense value of the situation, and she deter- 
mined not to hesitate, but to use it to the utmost. 

“ Don’t fear me,” she said at once. “ I know 
how to manage Jack. He shall not know too 
much. Let me think it over. Give me time to 
talk to him quietly, and I will do whatever is 
possible.” 

Lady Drusilla was pale now — pale with intense 
excitement. Her hands clutched the arms of her 
chair tightly, and she sat leaning forward as if she 
saw some vision before her. 

“Bertha,” she said, in a low voice, “I will 
always be your friend — and I may be of great 
use to you in the family; it’s not an easy one to 
get on in, but I’ll see you through any difficulty if 

you will help me now. I can’t tell you what a 

9 


130 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


deep longing there is in me to have a home of my 
own, a house in town, with merry little dinners 
every night — and they would always be merry with 
Jack at the head of the table ; to give balls myself, 
which everyone would enjoy; to make people 
happy and amused — oh, Fin beginning to wish so 
to be able to do it ! — to open my old house up in 
Scotland. That’s all my own, but my mother won’t 
let me go near it. She hates Scotland, and will not 
go with me, and will not let me go alone because 
I’m not married. Bertha, it would be all a new 
life to me ; and then Jack to make it all delight- 
ful ! ” 

“ You are fond of Jack, then ?” said Bertha, to 
whom such an idea was quite surprising, as she had 
a life-long habit of looking upon Jack as a very 
foolish person of no serious account whatever. 

‘‘ Yes, I’m fond of him,” said Lady Drusilla, 
rising slowly from her chair. Then, suddenly 
turning and leaning over Bertha, she said, in a 
low, intense voice, “ No, I’ni not fond of him — I 
love him ! Oh ! Bertha, love is a pain ! It hurts 
me ! ” She. clasped her liands across her bosom as 
if she felt a knife there ; and perhaps she did. 

Bertha, looking up at her, still lost in utter 


A DEBt OE HONOtTR. 


181 


amazement, which she concealed as well as she 
could under her habitual well-bred calmness of 
manner, saw a dark, plain, unattractive face lit up 
by a strong passion, which gave no real light, but 
made its lines look darker and harder. Here was 
the great difficulty. What would Jack feel about 
it? Un romantic, unsentimental though she was, 
Bertha saw plainly that Jack might distinctly 
object to a wife who, though she was really only a 
few years older than himself, looked old enough to 
be his mother, and who, moreover, was so distinctly 
wanting in attraction as never to have been wooed 
for anything but her money. The task she had set 
herself might not, after all, prove an easy one. But 
what a way out of the gulf it showed — out of the 
abyss in which but a short half-hour ago she and 
Jack both seemed to be lost ! 

The thing must and should be accomplished. So 
said Bertha to herself, as she listened to Lady 
Drusilla’s confession. And having said this, her 
confidence was restored ; for she did not think it 
possible for herself to make such a resolution with- 
out carrying it out. She was certain of her own 
ability to carry through any matter, however diffi- 


182 


A DEBT OP HOKOITR. 


cult, if she had but a little time in which to think 
and arrange. 

You love him ? ” she said, very deliberately, 
looking into Lady Drusilla’s eyes as she spoke. 
‘‘Well, they say in novels that love is a great 
pleasure. What is it like ? Do you feel as though 
you cannot live without him ? ” 

“ Oh ! I can’t bear to be away from him,” said 
Lady Drusilla, in a broken voice. “ There seems 
no sense in anything when he is away. I always 
want to hear what he says and thinks about— all 
that happens ; nobody else’s opinion matters to me 
at all, or interests me. I suppose it’s very foolish, 
but I can’t help it ; and I wouldn’t alter, because 
since I have known Jack, for the first time for 
years, life has seemed to be worth living. It was 
so empty before. Bertha, whatever you do, don’t 
frighten him away. I can’t bear him to go away ! ” 
“ He’s not so easily frightened, I should think,” 
said Bertha. “ At all events, I promise you /shall 
not frighten him away, whoever does. We must 
dress for dinner, or we shall be very late,” added 
Bertha, quickly, reminded by an anxious knocking 
at the door that her maid had already tried twice 
to get admittance. 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


133 


‘‘ Yes, indeed,” exclaimed Lady Drusilla, looking 
at a little watch on her wrist. VVe are very late. 
Oh ! Bertha, I do wish you would tell me what I 
look best in. I have no one to tell me that I can 
believe. The maids all flatter me, and tell me lies, 
because they hope I’ll give them dresses and money. 
You tell me truly, Bertha, what to wear. I would 
do anything for a real friend — one who would tell 
me the truth.” 

Bertha was put into a difficult position by this 
question; She hardly knew how to answer at 
first y but she concluded, after a moment’s serious 
thinking, that it would be best for all persons con- 
cerned to tell the truth, once and for all. 

You. always look best in dark, quiet things,” 
she said, slowly. “ I like you better in black silk 
and black lace than anything else.” 

. What ! an old woman’s dress ! ” exclaimed Lady 
Drusilla. 

“Oh, no,” said Bertha. “But you are so dark 
yourself, you need a very dark dress. Black silk 
to make your skin fair, and diamonds to make your 
eyes bright. You’ll find the youngest and pret- 
tiest girl in the world looks handsomer dressed 


134 


A DEBT OF HONOUK. 


]ike that than in white or pale colours, unless she 
is wonderfully fair.” 

With which sage remark Bertha sent Lady 
Brasilia away quite happy to make her toilette, 
while she herself sat down to have her hair dressed, 
and think deeply during the operation. 


A DEBT OF HONOUK. 


135 


XIV. 

By the next morning Bertha, after an almost 
sleepless night, had decided what to do and what 
to say, and how to conduct her difficult task. She 
waited a long while at the breakfast-table to see 
Jack, but he did not appear. She could not gather 
from anyone whether he had already gone out, or 
was not yet down. Lady Drusilla arrived late, 
and looked anxiously at her; but Bertha did not 
give her even an answering look. She quite ap- 
preciated the fact that Lad}?- Drusilla felt herself 
to be the one at a disadvantage, and she intended 
to keep her in that wholesome frame of mind. She 
knew very well that from now she would be cease- 
lessly watched, in the hope that she would give 
some sign. 

Jack never appeared at all, and Bertha began to 
get secretly uneasy when breakfast was quite over, 
and the party was scattering to its various morning 
occupations. Lady Drusilla kept a close watch 


186 


A DEBT OF HONOUK. 


with a clouding brow. What had become of the 
boy ? Bertha wondered to lierself whether he had 
determined, after their conversation of yesterday, to 
leave the field and be no more seen. That would 
be a pretty situation for her! As she thought 
of the possibility^ she set her little white teeth 
together in a way that boded no good for Jack if 
she should get a chance to revenge herself on him. 

She refused to go out, on the plea of being tired, 
and arming herself with a book, put on her hat and 
went to loiter about the garden. Dane had gone 
out with a shooting party, but Jack was not of it. 
Where, then, could he be ? To Bertha’s great 
relief, she saw him striding home across the park 
about one o’clock. She hurried to meet him before 
he came into the garden. 

Where have you been. Jack?” she exclaimed. 

have been looking for you all the morning.” 

I’ve been for along walk,” he answered, gloom- 
ily, ‘‘ I wasn’t in the humour to talk to people or 
go out with the other fellows, so I cleared out. I 
hoped I would get an idea of some sort, but not a 
shadow of one has come to me. I declare, Bertha, 
if it wasn’t SO cowardly, it seems to me the only 
plan is for me to leave the country.” 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


137 


‘‘No,” said Bertha, “there’s something better 
for you than that. I have found a way out of 
the difficulty.” 

“ You have ! ” he exclaimed. Poor Jack, his face 
was transformed in a moment, and he looked like 
his old self again. “Is it possible, Bertha?” he 
said, taking her by the arm in a strong grasp which 
made her wince. “Tell me the truth — are you in 
earnest?” 

“I never waste time in nonsense, do I?” asked 
Bertha, rather angrily. 

“No, that’s true. I can’t imagine you making 
a joke, even a grim one,” he answered, and released 
her arm. “Well, then, tell me all about it.” 

“ Why weren’t you at breakfast ? ” asked Bertha, 
somewhat irrelevantly, as Jack thought. 

“I’ve told you already,” he replied. 

“You didn’t care to face Dane, with no hope in 
your mind of ever paying your debt?” 

“That’s about it,” he answered, gloomily. 
“ Why do you harp on it ? ” 

“ Well, because you have to take a very different 
line from that. Come in to lunch, and be very 
agreeable to everybody. Treat Dane as if you 
meant to pay him this afternoon, and pay great 


138 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


attention to Lady Drusilla. Don’t forget that, 
whatever you do. Now you had better go in at 
once, for you look as if you had come out of the 
backwoods. Dress yourself again before lunch, 
and mind you are very attentive to Lady Drusilla, 
and as fascinating as you can manage.” : 

“Merciful powers! These are queer orders. 
You must explain your meaning.” 

“ Not now,” said Bertha. “ There isn’t time ; 
and, besides, we are watched. But, look here. 
Jack ; you got into this difficulty by your own folly, 
and J have to get you out of it. Isn’t that so? 
Can you get yourself out of it ? No I Very well, 
then, do as I tell you. There’s no other way, and 
there’s no time to waste. Don’t forget a word I’ve 
said, but go and carry it all out. I’ll save you, if 
you do this.” 

“ And pray,” said Jack, “ when will you en- 
lighten me as to the meaning of all this?” 

“ Later in the day, if I get a chance. If not, to- 
morrow. But you must do just as I tell you in 
the meantime, or else I will do nothing to help 
you.” 

Jack shook his head as he walked off to the 
house. This mystery did not please him. At the 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


.39 


same time, he was powerless, and knew it. If 
Bertha meant to keep him in the dark for any 
reason of her own, it was mere waste of breath and 
strength for him to try and extract any informa- 
tion from her. It was as well, tlien, to go straight 
on and obey orders. There was nothing else to be 
done, after all ! For, as Bertha briefly described 
the situation, he had got into the difficulty, but she 
had to get him out of it. Was it possible there 
could be a way out of it? Yes, there must be ; 
for, as he had said, Bertha was incapable of a joke 
— even a grim one. What, then, could it be ? Had 
she determined to raise on her own fortune ? He 
doubted that, for he himself saw the difficulty of 
doing it without their father's knowledge. Had 
she hit on some plan for borrowing it of the rich 
Lady Drusilla, and repaying it by-and-by when her 
property would be under her own control? No 
doubt that was it. And a brilliant idea, too ! Jack 
was charmed at the revelation of his good fortune, 
as it appeared to him, and, being a very sanguine 
creature, he began to sing, while he was dressing, 
with all his old gaiety. He went down to the 
luncheon-table the picture of youth, health, happi- 
ness — just what he had always been till his own 


140 A DEBT OF HONOUR. 

folly clouded his sky. Lady Drusilla smiled as she 
saw him enter the room. In his sunny humour 
he had the power to bring the sunshine on to her 
face too. It was ho wonder she had learned to 
care for hini as she did, when one saw how empty 
and dull her too gorgeous life was. Even Bertha, 
watching her covertly, apprehended her feeling 
more nearly than she had done hitherto, when she 
saw how her face changed and brightened as Jack 
came and sat beside her. She unbent^ as some 
people do with a child, who are grim or sad at 
other times. In a few moments they were laugh- 
ing like two children at some nonsensical remark 
of Jack’s; and Lady Drusilla was scarcely recog- 
nisable as the dreary, soul-embittered heiress. She 
seemed almost young, thought Bertha, as she 
looked at her. 

Bertha had adopted the method of mystery 
simply to gain time. She could not yet determine 
how best to influence Jack, and compel him to act 
wisely ; she was afraid to speak to him till she was 
quite clear as to what she was going to say. But 
she did not mean to lose any time, for all that ; 
and she thought it was quite possible Jack might 
make the running better blindfolded than if he 


A DEBT OF HONODR. 


141 


could see where he was going. And so, indeed, it 
proved. Quite under the impression that Lady 
Drusilla was playing Lady Bountiful to him, 
though probably without her own knowledge. Jack 
put on his most charming manner to her, and sent 
her into the seventh heaven of delight. Lord Dane 
appropriated Bertha at lunclieon, and insisted on 
her accompanying him on a long expedition which 
he had planned. Some of the others wanted to 
go, and had cajoled liim to arrange it, and Lord 
Dane did not care to go without Bertha. She fell 
in easily with his wishes, the plan suiting herself. 
Lord Dane, who was always delighted to the last 
degree when she gave her stately acquiescence to 
anything of his arranging^ was highly pleased. 
Jack, seeing that there would be no chance of 
talking to his sister that afternoon, and feeling 
that his one hope lay in helping her to carry out 
her scheme, whatever it might be, placed himself 
at Lady Drusilla’s disposal. And so Bertha had 
the satisfaction of seeing these two drive off to- 
gether in Lady Drusilla’s ovyn pony-carriage, all 
laughter and apparent light-heartedness. No one, 
put of the secret, would have guessed that both 
hid anxious hearts. 


142 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


only I could rely on Jack,” thought Bertha, 
as she watched them, ‘‘ then all would be smooth 
sailing. But he is so unmanageable sometimes. 
Well, I must hold the reins tight, that’s all.” 

Lady Drusilla drove a pretty little pair of cream 
ponies, which she never allowed anyone to handle 
but herself ; so Jack had nothing to do but sit by 
her side and talk to her and make her laugh. 
Soon after the smart little equipage had passed 
down the smooth high road, it was followed by 
Lord Dane’s mail phaeton, Bertha, in her silent, 
stately beauty, content to be its chief ornament, 
and not even attempting to amuse or interest her 
future lord. 

And it will be like this all through life ! ” was 
Bertha’s thought. If only Jack is sensible ! If 
only ! ” 

Ah! that ‘‘if only” is just that which brings 
the rift in the lute. 

Still, so far as Bertha’s far-seeing brain c.ould 
penetrate through the clouds about her, it was not 
possible for Jack to make more than a temporary 
difficulty about “ being sensible.” 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


143 


XV. 

In the evening Jack tried to get near Bertha and 
speak to her. But she put him off, only saying 
quietly and resolutely, “ Be very attentive to Lady 
Drusilla.” So he returned to his post, and that 
was indeed a red-letter day to Lady Drusilla, a 
luxury for which §he thanked Bertha with many 
an eloquent look. 

The next morning, after another night’s sleep, 
or thought, I know not which, Bertha came down- 
stairs in a very determined frame of mind. She 
had got no more light on the subject, and she 
knew that no further delay was possible. She 
therefore said to Jack, when, as he was passing 
her chair, he said ‘‘ Good morning,” I want to 
talk to you.” He gave her a look of intelligence 
and passed on. The result of this was that Bertha, 
strolling out after breakfast into the garden, was 
joined by her brother. 

“ Let us go- into the Long Avenue,” she said. 


144 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


‘‘ Lady Drusilla put me up to that. It’s a capital 
place. We can see who’s coming, and no one can 
overhear us. Come, let us start as if for a quick 
constitutional. I’m so afraid Dane will follow 
us.” 

“ Now, then,” said Jack, as soon as they were in 
the avenue, what is the situation ? ” 

This,” said Bertha. “ Don’t you see that Lady 
Drusilla likes you very much?” 

“ Well — yes,” agreed Jack, ‘‘she seems to.” If 
native modesty had not hindered him he would 
probably have added, “But then most people do.” 
However, he left the thought, if it occurred to 
him, unuttered. 

“ Now, don’t be foolish,” said Bertha, sharply. 
“ This is business to you and me, though it may be 
sentiment to her.” 

“Sentiment! ” echoed Jack. “ What on earth 
do yon mean ? Do speak out, Bertlia.” 

“ I am going to. You are to marry Lady Dru- 
silla.” 

“To — do — what?” exclaimed Jack, in amaze- 
ment, stopping short and staring at his sister as if 
he thought she had gone mad. “ What on earth 
do you mean ? ” 


A DEBT OE HONOUR. 


145 


“ Just what I say,” answered Bertha, composedly 
— indeed, she was growing more composed and 
confident now that Jack was beginning to be 
shaken. ‘‘Lady Drusilla has taken a fancy to 
you. It seems to me very extraordinary, consider- 
ing that she has her time and her fortune really at 
her own disposal. However, I am not Lady Dru- 
silla. Of course. Jack, though you are awfully 
silly in some things, you are a man of honour, and 
therefore you won’t betray Lady Drusilla’s con- 
fidence to me to any living being, will you ever, 
at any time ? ” 

“ Of course not,” said Jack, who had become 
very serious all in a moment, for the actual mean- 
ing of the situation was dawning on him clearly 
enough. 

“Well, then, as I put it, she has taken a fancy 
to you. I believe some people would say she has 
fallen in love. She came to me and told me so 
herself. She further told me that she knew you 
to be in trouble about gambling debts, and said 
that if you could learn to care for her, honestly, 
and would try to make her happy, she would pay 
your debts now, and no one should ever know 
anything about it, and she would make your for- 


146 


A DEBT OF BONOUB. 


tune secure in the future. Of course, you have 
no alternative.” 

“No alternative,” again echoed Jack. “ I am to 
marry Lady Drusilla ! ” 

“Yes,” said Bertha; “and with a good grace, 
too.” 

“ Lady Drusilla I ” repeated Jack, who was still 
standing in his first attitude of amazement, staring 
at Bertha as if she were the tenth wonder of the 
world. “ But, my dear girl,” he said quickly, 
recovering himself with an effort, and entering 
into his normal condition once more, “ the idea is 
impossible — ridiculous ! ” 

“ Oh, is it ? ” said Bertha, icily. 

“ Perfectly ridiculous.” 

“ Come, walk on a little. No doubt Dane and 
Lady Drusilla are both watching us from the 
house, and what is the use of behaving like a 
stage-struck play-actor ? ” 

“ Oh ! they are both watching us, are they ? ” 
said Jack, turning round and surveying the win- 
dows angrily. 

“ I should imagine so. I avoided Dane in order 
to talk to you, and of course he is wondering what 
I want to talk to you about. As for Lady Dru- 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


147 


silla, I am quite sure she is watching us. She 
thinks of nothing but you from morning till night, 
I believe.’^ 

Which remark made Jack wheel round again, 
and look at his sister as angrily as he had just 
been looking at the house. 

‘‘ But, you know,” he said, ‘‘ the whole idea is 
preposterous. I should as soon think of marrying 
my grandmother as of marrying Lady Drusilla.” 

‘‘ Which only shows your folly ” — preparing her- 
self for the tug of war — and being so dense that 
you could not see what was right before your eyes, 
you may be very thankful to have it pointed out 
to you.” 

“ And so I am,” said Jack ; “ and very thankful 
to have a plan suggested to me when it is in any 
way feasible. But this isn’t, and you know it.” 

“ Very well,” said Bertha ; ‘‘ if that’s the case, we 
will leave it alone there, and let things go on as 
they were.” 

With which she put up her sunshade with a well- 
assumed manner of total indifference to the con- 
versation, and leaving the avenue, walked leisurely 
across the grass towards the house. She had de- 
cided beforehand to adopt this plan so soon as Jack 


148 A DEBT OP HONOTJR. 

adopted the positive tone. She calculated on the 
instability of his character, and expected him to 
follow her before she had crossed the lawn. But 
in this she calculated wrongly ; not because of her 
own want of intelligence, but because she did not 
know everything. She knew nothing of Jack’s 
romantic love for Lily Barton. 

Directly Bertha left him and he realised that 
with her and her dreadful scheme for his salvation 
every hope or chance left liim— when he felt liim- 
self deserted without compromise — all the sensa- 
tions came over him which would come upon a 
drowning man who saw a boat come up to him and 

then sail right away again. “ Bertha The 

cry was on his lips, when suddenly a thought 
arrested his speech, and he staggered back as if 
under a physical blow. Lily ! — I gave her my 
promise — it would kill her — she always said it 
would kill her.” 

He turned his back on Bertha the temptress, and 
walked away down the avenue. And so, to Bertha’s 
great surprise, she was allowed to reach the house 
without interruption. She turned and looked round 
before she entered. Jack was out of sight. Well, 
this was extraordinary ! so thought Bertha. Could 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


149 


he be resolute enough to face ruin and disgrace and 
the hardships that would follow rather than marry 
a woman he did not care for? Oh ! impossible ! A. 
feeling of rage entered Bertha’s heart, and she went 
hastily into the house. If it were possible that he 
would hold out, what would be her next argument ? 

She went up to her room, and there found, as she 
had expected and feared. Lady Drusilla awaiting 
her in a feverish state of impatience. 

“I saw you talking to him. I could not help 
watching you — and I could not help waiting to 
speak to you,” said Lady Drusilla, eagerly and 
apologetically. “Now, tell me the truth— he has 
gone off in a rage — I could tell that by the way he 
walked. Now, tell me the truth, Bertha — if he 
does not care for me, let it all be at an end at 
once.” 

“ Why, Lady Drusilla,” said Bertha, lightly, “ do 
you take me for a clairvoyant ? I cannot guess at 
Jack’s feelings. I must wait till I can find them 
out.” 

“ What, haven’t you spoken to him ? ” exclaimed 
Lady Drusilla, with visible disappointment. 

“ It would be too crude to speak straight out to 
him, would it not, Lady Drusilla?” said Bertha, 


150 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


playing with her parasol, which she still held in 
her hand. ‘‘ I want to lead him on to talk himself, 
and reveal his feelings to me. We have only been 
discussing his money troubles to-day.” 

“ Yes, I know you are quite right, Bertha,” said 
Lady Drusilla, clasping her hands nervously. ‘‘ I 
feel you are right, and that I am foolishly im- 
patient. I will leave it all in your hands now, 
you are such a sensible girl. But you must for- 
give me if I am impatient. So much depends on 
it — all my future — and I have never met anyone 
else I could like as I do Jack.” 

“ Trust it all to me,” said Bertha. Don’t think 
any more about it till I have something to tell you ; 
and then you may be sure I shall let you know at 
once.” 

‘‘ Yes,” said Lady Drusilla, rising witB the feel- 
ing that she had been dismissed ; ‘‘ I will do as you 
say. But, oh ! Bertha, after being so unwomanly 
as to have told you all this, what will become of 
me if he does not care for me ? ” 

Bertha threw a searching glance at her. It was 
almost more than she could do to avoid saying, 
‘‘You, with all your money, with all your power, 
to care about a foolish boy like my brother ! ” But 


A DEBT OF HONOUB. 


151 


she remembered her rdle sufficiently clearly not to 
imperil her cause by such a rash speech. Lady 
Drusilla left her without anything further being 
said between them, and Bertha was agreeably con- 
scious of holding the upper haud so far. She had 
successfully concealed the fact that she was in re- 
ality very nervous about Jack, and what Quixotic 
and senseless course he might take it into his head 
to pursue. 


152 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


XVI. 

Jack meantime took a long, long walk, and sav- 
agely smoked several cigars half through, throw- 
ing the ends away unconsumed with an air of great 
distaste. Nothing pleased him ; the world was out 
of joint, the sun seemed wrongly set in the heavens. 
He walked and walked, in the hope that air and 
exercise miglit enlighten his mind. This was a fa- 
vourite hope of his, but a consistently delusive one. 
It was natural to him to go and walk when he was 
harassed, and he fruitlessly trusted that when this 
physical need was exhausted his brains would begin 
to work. Hitherto such a thing had never hap- 
pened; but to-day an idea came to him which 
seemed as if it were born of the very sunlight 
itself. 

‘‘ I’ll go and tell Lily the whole thing ! ” 

It seemed to him that he had been given a mag- 
nificent thought. It never occurred to him that it 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


153 


was merely the act of a selfish, helpless creature to 
put this trouble upon Lily’s slender shoulders. To 
him it appeared simply that a trouble shared with 
such a sweet counsellor was a trouble got rid of. 
She would tell him what to do, and what was right 
to do. His confidence in her was so complete that 
he was certain what she said was right would be 
right, without further consideration on his part. 

He decided to do nothing more without seeing 
her. This decision raised his spirits immensely. 
He went back to the house, met Lady Drusilla on 
the way, was charmingly agreeable to her, and then 
sought out his hosts and said he had to go home 
for a day to attend to some business. He said noth- 
ing to Bertha, leaving her to conjecture whatever 
she chose. He knew very well that she was ex- 
ceedingly anxious as to wliat he was going to do, 
and it pleased him rather to torment her a little. 

There was only the Squire and Lady Agnes at 
Falconer Hall, and Jack found it very pleasant to 
be received with open arms and to feel that he was 
indeed at home. What would have been his wel- 
come if liis actual position had been known ? He 
shuddered to think of it. He could not avoid realis- 
ing the pleasure as a keen contrast to the dreadful 


154 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


visions he had lately been conjuring up — of ruin, 
of leaving the country, and working and fighting 
for himself. He had not been reared to look on 
work or on want as possibilities for himself, and fac- 
ing them even dimly, and with the haziness of total 
inexperience, had been quite sufficiently unpleasant 
to give him a wholesome horror of the real thing. 
What a horrible thing if, instead of coming home 
to every luxury and comfort, and the warmest and 
tenderest affection, he had been journeying to 
Liverpool with enough money in his pocket for a 
second-class passage on an outward-bound steamer, 
and then — the cold world before him ! After din- 
ner on the first evening of his return home, he lit 
his cigar as usual, and loitered out into the moon- 
light, reflecting on these things in the richness of 
his content. It all weighed with him very heavily, 
and dragged the balance down. Lady Drusilla 
was not unbearable — certainly not ; he had been 
with her a great deal lately, and had found her 
company pleasant enough. Would the situation 
be so painful after all ? It would be really much 
less treacherous to Lily than if he married an at- 
tractive girl. Surely she would see this at once ! 
There would, in fact, be no treachery in it. 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


155 


Buoyed up with these thoughts he walked about 
on the grass, half hesitating whether to go down 
to the old trysting-place or no, on the chance of 
meeting Lily, when he felt a liglit touch on his 
arm. It was Lady Agnes, wrapped in a filmy 
shawl, which made her look like a ghost. 

Jack dear,” she said, I want so much to speak 
to you.” 

‘‘ And what is it, mother dear? ” he asked, affec- 
tionately, nestling his head against hers, where it 
lay on his shoulder. What is troubling your dear 
mind now?” 

“You, Jack darling; you yourself.” 

“ Oh ! I suppose so, mother. It is always this 
troublesome boy of yours. What is the matter 
now ? ” 

“ Jack, you have been gambling again. I heard 
of it.” 

Jack said nothing for a moment. He had not 
expected this, and had not got his thoughts ready 
collected. Lady Agnes, after a moment’s silence, 
raised her head, held him fast, and looked at him 
close in the moonliglit. 

“ Why don’t you speak. Jack ? For the love of 
Heaven tell me! You’ve not been losing, have 


156 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


you ? Oh, tell me you’ve not been losing ! I can 
bear anything better than the suspense.” 

With which inconsistent outcry she flung her 
arms round him and began to sob hard— dry sobs 
that wrung Jack’s heart. 

“ No, no, mother dear ! Don’t imagine such 
things ! Don’t trouble yourself so ! Don’t !— it’s 
all right indeed, dear mother, it is all right.” 

And he believed he was speaking honestly, this 
poor casuist, because, as he thought to himself, it 
should be all right, at any sacrifice. He could not 
endure to see such suffering. 

Is it. Jack ? ” asked Lady Agnes very anxiously, 
trying, as she spoke, to stay her sobs. ‘‘ Oh, I 
have been so miserably afraid ! If you have won, 
then all is well for the moment. But, Jack, prom- 
ise me on your honour you won’t touch the cards 
again. I know you have promised before, and I 
know you broke your word. It is different now. 
I don’t ask you for any sentimental reason^ — not 
for my sake— no, nor for the nobler reason of prin- 
ciple, but because, Jack, your father could not 
bear it. He does not know of this ; I have kept 
it from him. If he knew of it. Jack, even if he 
knew you had won, I am certain his anger would 


A DEBT OP HONOUB. 


157 


be so deep that he would disinherit you. He does 
not understand temptation, Jack; he does not 
understand a broken promise. My dear boy, 
you are not one who can face the world alone; 
believe me, you cannot do it. Don’t ran tlie 
risk.” 

There was mortal terror in Lady Agnes’s voice 
all through this speech, and it struck an answer- 
ing thrill of fear in Jack. He knew perfectly 
how fearfully near absolute wreckage he was — he 
knew so much better than Lady Agnes did. But 
her visible terror made his fear into a horrible 
dread. 

No, no,” he said ; I shall not, mother dear. 
Don’t be afraid about me. I am more sensible 
than you think. All will be well.” 

“ Oh! Jack dear, I hope it is so,” she said trem- 
blingly. I could not save you another time. It 
will be hard work to save you this. Thank Heaven 
you won! What a mercy! Heaven must have 
meant to save you ! But don’t tempt fortune 
again. Don’t tempt it again ! I don’t want to see 
my dear boy — my one son — go down, ruined, 
wrecked, like a drowned man at sea. Oh! Jack, 
poverty would kill you.” 


158 


A DEBT OF HONOTTE. 


“ Yes, mother,” said Jack, very earnestly. “ And 
I will take care. If the Squire knows nothing 
this time, there shall never be anything of the sort 
again. I mean it now — I did not before.” 


A DEBT OP HONOUE. 


169 


XVIL 

Jack thought it would be very easy to meet Lily, 
as he used to meet her, by chance, in the walks 
across the meadows, or in the village street, and 
get a few moments of quiet talk with her. But 
after he had been at home twenty-four hours, and 
passed most of the daylight wandering about look- 
ing for her, he had not caught one single glimpse 
of the slender figure he wished so much to see. 
He had no idea that she was avoiding him, that 
she had determined not to encounter him by any 
chance. He knew, however, that he could not 
wait indefinitely, that the matter was one which 
must be settled at once. He decided, therefore, 
on the second evening of his stay at home, to pay 
Roger Barton a call, and see if he could not meet 
Lily in her own home and seize some opportunity 
to tell her he wanted to see her alone. He walked 
down through the village, smoking his after-dinner 


160 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


cigar, and turned into the inn. There was the 
usual small and select company spending the even- 
ing; a sort of village club, with the landlord for 
master of the ceremonies. In the inner room sat 
Mrs. Barton, knitting. It seemed to Jack that 
there was a new look of anxiety on her comely 
face. He talked a little while with the men, all 
old inhabitants, who had known him since he was 
in long-clothes, all — that is, except the young 
schoolmaster lately come from London — and then 
went in to speak to Mrs. Barton. He looked on 
every side for Lily, but could not see even the 
gleam of a flitting dress, nor yet any sign of her 
needlework in the room. Was she away? At 
last he could bear the suspense no longer, and 
asked Mrs. Barton the question point-blank. She 
dropped her knitting and looked at him. 

‘‘ No,” she said, “ Lily’s not away. She’s at home. 
Lady Agnes wanted her to go away on a visit, but 
none of us wished it.” 

She spoke with meaning in her voice, and Jack 
understood her. She knew that Jack had no idea 
Lily had confided in her, but she saw no reason to 
conceal the fact from him. She looked at him 
very earnestly. Why was he asking for Lily? 


A DEBT OF HONOUB. 


161 


Jack quite understood her look and manner. He 
recognised at once that she had heard Lily’s sad 
little love tale. For a moment he hesitated, and 
then, urged on by his anxiety, he determined to 
find out the truth. 

She’s not he asked, apprehensively. 

“ No, I cannot say that she is ill,” answered Mrs. 
Barton. “ At least, not actually in body. But 
she’s fading away, Mr. Jack; that’s what it seems 
like. She’s just simply fading away.” 

Jack started, and his face grew a shade paler. 
He loved Lily better than any earthly creature ; 
his yearning towards her was unabated; and now, 
back in the old scenes, it returned with redoubled 
strength. Fading away ! 

‘‘ Let me see her,i’ he exclaimed. 

Mrs. Barton shook her head. 

‘‘ No,” she said. “ Her mind’s made up against 
that, and I think she’s right. What good can 
come out of it?” 

Jack stirred uneasily, and made no answer. He 
threw away his cigar, and sat looking at the ground 
very moodily. 

Mrs. Barton looked at his gloomy face, all the 

light gone out of it ; then she leaned forward and 

11 


162 A DEBT OF HONOUR* 

gazed for some moments at the scene in the bar. 
It evidently interested her. The schoolmaster, a 
bright, good-looking young man, was just then ex- 
plaining some matter on which he had superior 
information to the company. Mrs. Barton, having 
watched him awhile, seemed to come to a sudden 
resolution. She turned her attention again to 
Jack, and, drawing her chair nearer, leaned forward 
and addressed him in a very low voice. 

‘‘ Mr. Jack,” she said, can’t you find any way 
to wean her, and undo what you’ve done? She’s 
just breaking her heart, that’s all. She’s plenty 
of suitors in her own rank, and perhaps better, but 
still within her reach, that could give her a very 
happy life; but she will none of them. There’s 
Mr. Harford there, the schoolmaster, that worships 
the ground she walks on. He’s well to do, and 
will be better, for he’s smart and clever ; and he’s 
just the nice, kind fellow I’d trust her to. And 
she’d be here, close to us. But she won’t notice 
him. He’s asked her twice, I know. Mr. Jack, 
what’s to be done ? Is her life to be ruined ? 
Can’t you lielp us? ” 

While Mrs. Barton had been speaking a sort of 
light broke over Jack’s face. 


A DEBT? OP HOKOtTR. 


163 


“ Mrs. Barton,” he said when she ceased “ let 
me see Lily. What I have to say to her really 
may affect her as you wish. I don’t know ; but it 
is to talk to her about something of the sort that I 
want to speak to her.” 

It’s not my doing that she doesn’t see you,” 
said Mrs. Barton. “ She hides herself, as it were, 
directly she knows you are at home. She won’t 
run the least risk of meeting you.” 

“Ask her, Mrs. Barton,” said Jack earnestly. 
“ Do go and ask her to let me talk to her. I want 
her help and counsel, and, indeed, I believe in 
helping me slie may help herself.” 

“ Do you mean it, Mr. Jack ? ” said Mrs. Barton, 
looking at him very earnestly. 

“Indeed I do, Mrs. Barton,” he answered, so 
honestly and frankly that she decided to trust him, 
and snatch at the mere possibility of Lily being 
benefited. She put down her knitting and went 
to look for her. 

Jack meantime went to the door into the bar, 
and scrutinised witli a great curiosity the young 
schoolmaster, who was evidently the suitor favoured 
by the mother, and who would therefore probably 
gain the day. Jack knew Lily would not love 


164 


A DEBT? OE HONOUR. 


again ; her nature was too deep for that, and if she 
married she would many to please her parents. 
Drawn by some mysterious fascination which he 
could not account for to himself, he approached 
the schoolmaster and engaged him in conversation. 
He found himself noting every mannerism, every 
gesture of the young man, and every inflexion of 
his voice. A man of the people, without a touch 
of gentlemanliness about him ; but Jack soon rec- 
ognised that he was talking to a man of brains 
and of fine education. When he saw Mrs. Barton 
return into the parlour he went to her. He gave 
a deep sigh as he rose from his chair. Would 
there ever be a Lily Harford? Would his beauti- 
ful love walk to church on Sunday mornings next 
summer by this man’s side? He tried to fancy 
her in her white gown, a rose at her girdle, her 
little Prayer-book in her hand. Yes, he could 
conjure up the pretty figure in his fancy, but he 
could not imagine it the figure of the school- 
master’s wife, try how he would. 

‘‘I have persuaded her,” said Mrs. Barton, in a 
low voice. ‘‘ She will come out into the garden if 
we go there first. I will wait till she joins us, and 
then leave you.” 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


165 


She pushed open the glass window and stepped 
out on to the grass. It was a brilliant moonlight 
night, chilly, as September nights are apt b) be, 
but there was the sweetness of dying roses on the 
air. 

“ Lily wanted you to come out here,” said Mrs. 
Barton, “ because she does not want her father to 
see you together. We have kept all this from him, 
Mr. Jack. You see, he has a violent temper — it 
would make misery and mischief if he knew about 
it. It will be better that he never should.” 

“Yes, you are right,” said Jack, in a low voice. 
A slight figure was just coming out of the liouse, 
and all his attention was concentrated on it. Lily, 
so slender, so frail-looking, she seemed more like a 
spirit than ever. She came across the grass to 
them. When she reached them, she caught at her 
mother’s arm, and for a moment they both thought 
she was going to faint. But she recovered herself 
in a moment, and said, in a trembling voice, “ Gome 
into the large meadow.” She did not look at Jack, 
or directly address him, but with a wavering step 
which showed her agitation, led the way through 
the shrubbery. She paused at the gate of the 
meadow, and leaned against it. 


166 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


Mother,” she cried, go back now, and don’t 
let father think 1 am out here. We have kept it 
all from him so long, let us keep it to the end.” 

Mrs. Barton put her hand on Lily’s for a second, 
and then went away without a word. 

Jack went up to her, and lifted the drooping 
head, and turned the pale face up to the moon- 
light. Oh, how pale it was ! How large the eyes 
looked, how dark the blue circles were beneath 
them, how drawn and sad the rosebud mouth ! 

^‘Now speak ! ” she said, ‘‘ I am not strong now 
— ^you must not keep me long.” 

In a moment his arms were round her — her head 
lay on his breast. 

i cannot give you up, Lily ! ” he exclaimed, 
passionately. I cannot, and I will not ! Fate is 
too cruel — we must not submit. Lily, how can I 
bear to lose you, and see that man made happy by 
your sweet presence in his home ? He would not 
have your love, but he would have you, child. I 
shall kill him for it some day ! ” 

Lily made no answer — never asked him whom 
he spoke of. Perhaps the meaning of his words 
never reached her mind ; for indeed she was faint 
with emotion. Wild joy and unbearable pain came 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


167 


to heir at the same moment when he caught her to 
him. She could not think or speak— only feel. 
The greater mass of humanity never know the 
pleasure or the pain experienced by a sensitive 
nature like Lily’s. But such a moment as this, 
spite of the pain in it, was worth a lifetime of dul- 
ness. There was silence between tliem for a little 
while— a silence so deep that it seemed to Lily, 
thinking of it afterwards, that Nature had felt with 
them, and kept silence too. At last Lily found 
strength enough to lift her bead, and gently dis- 
engage herself. She put her hands on the gate as 
if for support, and said faintly— 

“ Tell me what you have to say.” 

Jack was thrown back into the world of realities 
by her simple but decisive manner. He had in- 
deed not been saying what he had come to say. He 
stood dejectedly a moment, thinking, recalling 
everything. Then he came and leaned against 
the gate by her side, and began to tell her all his 
story. He told her of the visit to Rex Harburton’s 
shooting-box ; of the temptations he was exposed 
to ; of how he yielded because of his love for her, 
which was a torment too great to bear, knowing 
that they must always be separated ; of how the 


168 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


cards only could dull this pain, and make him for- 
get for a moment. This was the reason he gave 
for breaking his promise, and Lily, her white face 
turned up to the white moonlight, thought to 
herself, ‘‘I have not forgotten— no, not for one 
moment ! ” 

Then, having begun, he found it easier to go on. 
He told her of the debt ; he told her how his life 
was ruined unless it was paid ; he told her of all 
his mother had said to him, of her agony and anx- 
iety ; and then he told her — his voice lowering as 
he came to this, and his words coming more quickly 
— he told her about Lady Drusilla. And then, 
when all had been told, he burst out into passionate 
speech. 

“ Come away with me,” he cried out. “ If you 
will come away with me, Lily, I will let everything 
go.” 

“No,” she answered, in an intensely quiet voice, 
“you know that is impossible. There are others 
to think of besides ourselves — others whom we 
should grieve too deeply. That was so when last 
you asked me ; but now how much more is there 
to keep you ! You must expiate that broken 
promise. You tell me this is a debt of honour, 


A DEBT OF HONOUK. 


169 


that it must be paid and if you fly it can only be 
as a coward.” 

“ That is all true,” said Jack, with a desperate 
sigh. 

She said nothing more, and, after waiting in 
vain for her to speak, he exclaimed — 

“ Then tell me what I am to do. You are my 
good angel, and I will obey you.” 

Lily wore a white shawl over her shoulders. 
Before she replied she drew it closer round her 
with a shiver; then, standing still, her hands 
crossed, her face lifted to the moonlight, she spoke 
very quietly but very steadfastly— 

‘‘You must marry Lady Drusilla ; you must 
make her happy.” 

“ And you ! ” cried out Jack, in a voice of 
pain. 

She smiled — such a strange, sweet smile. 

“I shall be happy too,” she said. 

“You will marry Harford. Oh! I cannot 
bear it ; and yet it is what has to be. Oh, Lily, 
I shall go mad with jealousy ! Stay, give me one 
kiss.” 

But she was gone ; her light figure had van- 
ished, He saw her no more. 


170 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


XVIII. 

Jack did not consult his parents as to the step 
he was going to take, or even confide in Lady 
Agnes. He had sufficient common sense to see 
that it would save an infinity of trouble if they 
knew nothing of his proposed marriage till he was 
actually engaged. Even then he thought he 
would write the news and spare himself his 
father’s look of amazement. He went on his 
return journey, saddened, and yet with a feeling 
of resignation which was not altogether disagree- 
able. He loved comfort so dearly that it was easy 
to reconcile himself to Lady Drusilla’s com- 
panionship as the price of it. His passion for 
Lily was unabated, but it had been checked and 
thrown back into himself. After all, as he re- 
flected, the path of true love never does run 
smooth, and he was a lucky fellow to have a 
great heiress ready to save him from all his 
troubles ! 

When he appeared at the dinner-table that even- 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 171 

ing Bertha was relieved to see that he looked very 
cheerful, and that he paid great attention to Lady 
Drusilla. The one piece of independence which 
Jack had resolved upon was, that his mind being 
once made up, he would make the running him- 
self and not owe anything more to Bertha’s good 
ofi&ces. He had devoted himself all that evening 
to Lady Drusilla, who went to her room at night 
radiant with the pleasure his companionship gave 
her. 

What was it made this man so lovable ? None 
could tell, not even those who loved him. It was 
the nameless thing we call “ charm.” A man of 
true principle and honour, and a faithful heart, not 
possessing this, would pass unnoticed beside him. 

The next morning he planned a drive with 
Lady Drusilla, one that would keep them out till 
lunch time. And when they appeared at that 
meal Bertha saw, by one glance at her face, that 
Lady Drusilla’s wish was fulfilled. Jack had 
proposed. 

‘^That’s all right,” said Bertha to herself. 
“ I’m sure if Jack can manage his affairs alone, I 
don’t want the trouble of them. And Drusilla 
will tell me everything.” 


172 


A DEBT OF HOKOUK. 


So she went on with her lunch, and continued 
a sedate conversation she was holding with Lord 
Dane with a very contented mind. All was well 
— the risk was over. 

And so it was; for the profound amazement 
produced in both families by the announcement of 
the engagement could not affect it in any way. 
No one but the three who had confided in each 
other ever knew the meaning of this marriage. 
Dane concluded Jack’s was a mercenary marriage, 
but he never for a moment dreamed that it was 
his own sister who paid his winnings I The 
Squire was, perhaps, more amazed than anyone 
else, for he had no clue to the mystery at all. 
Lady Agnes had just this much — she knew Jack 
had been gambling, and she knew he hated to tell 
a truth that would pain anyone ; she knew, too, 
that as he could not marry Lily he would never 
marry for love. And thinking it all over night 
and day, she came to a conclusion pretty near the 
truth. It was a bitter disappointment to her, this 
marriage, for she would have liked to see Jack 
really happy, and would have dearly loved to 
welcome a beautiful young daughter-in-law. But 
her mother’s heart told her, with a pang, that this 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


173 


marriage might avert much greater evils. And 
so she determined, after much conflict of thought 
and feeling, to accept the situation with the best 
grace possible. 

The engagement was not to be a long one, as 
Lady Drusilla, having made up her mind and 
forced fate to her will, wished to leave home and 
her own house as soon as possible. 

When the news came to the village, Mrs. Barton 
was horror-struck. Lily had not told her any- 
thing of what had passed at her interview with 
Jack; and the poor mother trembled for the 
effect the news might have on the girl. She has- 
tened to tell her herself, when they were alone, 
rather than let her hear it when others might be 
present and witness her agitation. But, to her 
surprise, Lily showed no agitation. She stood 
pale and still, and a faint smile came on her face. 

“ Don’t be so anxious, mother dear,” she said. 
‘‘ I was prepared ; I knew all about it.” 

“ You’re a strange girl, Lily,” said Mrs. 
Barton. “ I thought you would have taken it more 
to heart.” 

There were times when no one, not tliose who 
loved her best, could understand Lily. Then, 


174 A DEBT OF HOKbXTR. 

indeed, in these moments of intense feeling, her 
‘‘ soul was like a star and dwelled apart.” 

The time passed by very quietly now. It was 
decided that the two weddings— Jack’s and 
Bertha’s— should take place on the same day ; and 
after much discussion Lady Drusilla’s family 
yielded to Bertha’s, and it was arranged that the 
double ceremony should take place in the quaint 
old village church where she and Jack had sat in 
the big Squire’s pew as children. The only blot 
on this plan, which was known only to Jack and 
his mother, was Lily’s presence in the village. It 
seemed cruel to make so much parade of his wed- 
ding here at her own home. Lady Agnes was so 
troubled at this thought that she went to see the 
girl about it. She found her sitting quietly, busy 
at some domestic duty. 

“ I know,” said Lady Agnes, “ at all events I 
feel sure that you and Jack understand each other 
about all this ; indeed, I sometimes think you 
understand it better than I do, you are so quiet 
and altered lately. But, at the same time, I don’t 
want you to think me heartless — or Jack either. 
The Squire would have the weddings here, and he 
is one who always has his way.” 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


1T5 


“ Do not think of me. Lady Agnes,” said Lily. 
“I am looking forward to that day. It will be 
over then.” 

She was sitting in a high-backed chair, and as 
she spoke she leaned her head back against it, and 
looked out through the window at the sky witli 
the strangest expression on her face. Lady Agnes 
looked at it, but could not understand it. 

‘‘ My dear,” she said, ‘‘ tell me, have you begun 
to cure yourself of your love for Jack ? Oh ! I 
hope so. Are you going to be married yourself, 
and happy ? ” 

Then Lily, with a smile, made the same answer 
she had made to Jack. 

“Yes, I am going to be very happy.” 

Lady Agnes went away puzzled, but, like Jack, 
somewhat relieved. How quietly Lily took 
it ! 

After this no one in the big house, or in all the 
village, thought much of anything but prepara* 
tions for the weddings. Lady Drusilla’s mind was 
not so profoundly occupied with her trousseau as 
it was with the taking of a house in town for her- 
self, and furnishing and arranging it to her own 
fancy. This gave her the keenest delight, and 


176 


A DEBT OP HONOtTR. 


under the influence of her new life she really 
looked ten years younger and handsomer than she 
had ever looked since the wretched adventurer 
whom she had once fancied she loved had broken- 
her heart, as she thought. She found now that 
this was a fancy too, for she had quite forgotten 
that he had ever existed. 

She made her house perfection from top to 
bottom, and pleased herself by considering Jack’s 
comfort to the last degree. He had his own rooms, 
all fitted to his own fancy. He soon found that 
the best way to make her happy was to let her 
furnish for him as if he had been the bride and she 
the bridegroom. At first a faint sense of pride rose 
within him and made him a little rebellious; but 
very soon his easy-going nature cheerfully accepted 
the position of second fiddle. All he had to do 
was to dance attendance on her, and let her consult 
him on every subject. He found his thraldom 
really very easy, and began to like the gilding on 
his chains. What a relief it was to know that the 
debt of honour, which had threatened to crush him 
utterly, was paid ; that he need never think of 
money again in all his life ! For Lady Drusilla 
could afford to keep a spendthrift husband if she 


A DEBT OF HONOUR, 177 

chose, and even to pay the gambling debts of a 
foolish one, up to a certain limit. 

Oh, how easy money makes life ! Those who 
have it cannot imagine the want of it. Jack had 
felt the pinch once, and once was enough for him. 

But there is a worse thing than want of money, 
and that is heart-hunger. Lady Drusilla had suf- 
fered from the pangs of this pain for years. Now 
she had a lovable scapegrace to give all her affec- 
tion to, and her joy at the cessation of the pain 
knew no bounds. 

But it seems we can never enjoy, except at 
another’s cost. What was Lily Barton suffering, 
sitting in her favourite high chair at the window in 
her mother’s parlour which looked on the garden ? 
From here she could see the spot where she parted 
from Jack for ever. She would sit here and work 
for hours, looking out from time to time. Young 
Harford came to her here, favoured by Mi's. Bar- 
ton, and paid timid court to the delicate girl, whom 
he looked on as a fair white flower that might 
wither at too strong a touch, or at too much 
warmth, even of love. She looked so transparent. 

She would smile at him sometimes, a strange, 

far-away smile, but still it gave him hope. 

12 


178 


A DEBT OP HONOUR. 


Mrs. Barton watched anxiously, hoping too. It 
was a great deal that Lily would even tolerate bis 
presence. It is true that he had never yet dared 
to risk any definite words which might have 
brought him his dismissal. She treated him always 
as a kind friend who cared for her, thinking, per- 
haps, that having been refused twice he would not 
ask again. Sometimes he fancied, from her manner, 
th^it she was going to confide in him, going to tell 
him something— but she never did.^ Her mother 
had the same idea occasionally ; but, whether or 
no, Lily kept her own counsel to the end* > 


A DEBT OF HONOUK. 


179 


XIX. 

A WINTER wedding in the country is one of the 
prettiest sights possible, if it is well arranged. It 
was early in December when the double marriage 
took place from Falconer Hall. No pains had been 
spared to make it charming in every detail, and 
the contrast between the flower-scented air within 
the Hall and the keen air without told a tale the 
moment one entered it. By the morning of the 
great day the house was like a vision of Fairyland, 
Every guest-room was not only occupied, but full 
of finery ; a double set of bridesmaids were being 
dressed by a phalanx of bewildered maids ; two 
brides were being waited on and decked out ; the 
whole household was given up either to dressing 
or to being dressed. Lady Agnes wandered to and 
fro like an unquiet spirit, seeing that all her visi- 
tors were being attended to ; she looked beautiful 
in a silver-grey gown and some old lace. But she 


180 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


was sad and anxious. A presentiment of misfor- 
tune was on her, and she could not quite shake it 
off. There was nothing very much to cheer her 
in the present moment, though it was exciting. 

Bertha was dressing for the ceremony with the 
same quiet dignity and cold apathy she had always 
shown (except in the moment in which we have 
seen her alone, when she feared that Jack would 
ruin all her prospects). She looked like a queen 
in her white silk and diamonds, but not at all like 
a daughter one could kiss and weep over a little, 
and Lady Agnes longed for some sign of feeling. 
Her heart warmed towards Lady Drusilla, whose 
face showed real emotion, and who clung to her 
once when they were alone for a moment, and 
whispered, ‘‘ Oh, I hope I have done for the best ! ” 
It was pleasant to hear her say even this. The 
doubt of herself seemed natural and human, after 
Bertha’s perfect contentment in her judgment, and 
confidence in all she did. 

She might safely conclude that the entire village 
was engaged in dressing at the same time as we 
have seen the bridesmaids; for only a cripple or 
two, and a grandmother who was too old to walk, 
stayed indoors on that bright morning. The sun 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


181 


shone gaily on these brides, making out of the 
December mist faint clouds on the hillsides, and 
jewels all over the hedges. All the way from the 
Hall to the little village church the country road 
was lined with people. Two schools of children 
waited at the church gate armed with flowers, for 
Lady Drusilla’s special protSgSs followed her en 
masse. The church itself was almost veiled with 
flowers ; it had never been so decorated since it 
was built. 

The only girl in that village who stayed within 
doors was Lily Barton. She remained in her own 
room. Her father and mother went to the church. 
Mrs. Barton would have liked to stay away, but it 
would have appeared too conspicuous. She almost 
tried to persuade Lily to come also, for the same 
reason. But at the first word Lily shook her head, 
and put up her hand imperatively ; and Mrs. Bar- 
ton did not dare say more. For Lily was one of 
those gentle, yielding people who, when now and 
again they are quite decided about a thing, cannot 
be moved. Lily simply sat there, silent, tearless, 
apparently lost in quiet thought. When Lady 
Agnes entered the church she looked nervously 
round for Lily’s face, but it was not to be seen, 


182 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


and she breathed a sigh of thankfulness. Dearly 
and truly she loved my boy,” thought Lady Agnes 
to herself. “If she had been of his own rank, 
how sweet it would have been to have her for a 
daughter!” 

Poor Lily! sitting alone in her room, if this 
thought could have been carried to her, it might 
have comforted her. Still, she knew well that 
Lady Agnes loved her, and Jack too ; she knew 
that she was bowing to the inevitable. No per- 
sonal hatred, no petty malice, injured her life; it 
was life itself that hurt her — ^the cruelty of imper- 
sonal fate. 

Prom her little lattice window— the one which 
Jack had watched once in the early summer morn- 
ing— she could just see a bit of the church gate. 
She went to it and looked out. She could see the 
carriages and the people, and she could see when 
they all were gone, and knew that then the church 
was full. Bertha and Lord Dane were to be mar- 
ried first. She had learnt this, and sat quietly 
waiting till the bells crashed out again. Then she 
rose slowly from her chair, took up her hat and 
put it on, and drew a dark cloak round her. She 
went slowly and very quietly downstairs and up 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


183 


the village street. In a little while they would 
begin to come out. She went on to a place where 
there was a narrow alley running down between 
two shops in the street. She turned into this, and 
leaned against the wall. Standing here, she could 
see the carriages pass, and not be seen even by the 
people walking by. 

Presently the crowd began to press out of the 
church and overflow into the street. She could 
hear them talking and laughing a little in low 
tones from pure gaiety of heart. How brilliant 
the sun was ! The carriages, which were standing 
in the street, drew closer up to the church door. 

At last they began to drive by. Lily guessed 
that Bertha’s party would go first, and she only 
just leaned forward a little to see if it was so. 
Yes, carriages full of bridesmaids, and then Bertha 
and Lord Dane. More bridesmaids now. Lily 
drew near the street. Her eagerness carried her 
away. The excitement was almost more than she 
could bear. Yes, the carriages were going at a 
foot pace, and she had the long look she desired. 
Jack and Lady Drusilla passed her, sitting side by 
side. And as they passed, Jack suddenly turned 
round — led by what feeling, who can tell? — and 


184 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


looked straight into Lily’s eyes. Their glances 
seemed to cling together till the last. Only when 
the carriage was really gone did Lily draw back 
again into the alley, and turn away from the 
people. But they did not notice her; they were 
all pressing on, following the carriages. No one 
had noticed her, save the one whom she loved. 

She waited till everyone had gone by, and then 
quickly crossed the street and went into the 
church. She took a long look round it. She went 
right up to the altar and stood there a moment, 
and then hurriedly came out and went across the 
churchyard to her favourite walk through the 
meadows. Her face was set and white, and her 
eyes had an unearthly look in them. 

She took the old path which she had so often 
walked along in the summer evenings in her white 
dress. She stopped a moment at one point on the 
edge of the wood. The fallen tree still lay there 
that Lady Agnes had been sitting on when she 
waited for her on that dreadful evening. Lily 
looked at it a long time, living the scene over 
again, remembering how Lady Agnes had risen 
and come to her — how she had spoken, all the 
words that passed between them. Then, her head 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


185 


drooping, she went on along the path to the river- 
side. Here was the bridge; sometimes, when she 
was crossing the meadow, she had seen Jack lean- 
ing on it, looking for her, waiting for the chance 
of her coming. She could almost fancy his figure 
was there now, so vividly could she recall it. He 
was leaning on the bridge, smoking his cigar with 
the dogs at his feet. No, it was empty; no one 
waited for her. She went straight on, and stepped 
up on to the bridge, and as she did so stopped 
again. How often, just as she was crossing it, had 
she not stopped like this, hearing him whistle to 
the dogs as he came hurrying through the woods! 
For a second her face lit up with the sweet memory, 
then quickly the stony, set look fell upon it again, 
leaving it colder and more unnatural than it had 
been before. She went on to the bridge and 
leaned on it, looking down into the rushing water. 


186 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


XX. 

The oak table in the dining-room at Falconer 
Hall had been enlarged to its utmost dimensions 
to accommodate this great double wedding party 
at breakfast. Quantities of white flowers were 
laid upon it, and the oak walls of the room were 
hung with ropes of them. Everybody appeared 
to be as gay as the scene looked ; even Lady 
Agnes had thrown off her dread. She was reas- 
sured, now that the wedding was safely over, and, 
all was well. What she had feared she could not 
have expressed; but fear something she did, and’ 
her sense of relief was very great. Jack, on the 
contrary, had lost his brightness. He was absent, 
cast down, absorbed in thought ; his mind was 
away with Lily, and his heart too. He tried hard 
to shake the sadness off, and eventually did so as 
the breakfast progressed ; indeed, before it was 
over he was quite himself again, and prepared to 
make the best of the inevitable— to make a virtue 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 187 

of the necessity of fulfilling a contract he had him- 
self entered into. He had so used himself to regard- 
ing it as a duty that he was quite able to realise 
his own virtue in the matter. It was only the look 
of profound and hopeless misery in Lily’s eyes that 
had saddened him for a while. By the time some 
speeches had been made, and everyone was amused 
and in a good humour, Jack had recovered himself 
so entirely that he was only aware of the one fact, 
which was to him so delightful to contemplate, 
that he was the young Squire, assured in his posi- 
tion for life, and the husband of one of the richest 
women in England. Ail the quicksands were 
past; there was nothing to fear. Jack’s speech 
was an immense success, of course, he being one 
of those popular people who win applause by merely 
rising and smiling at their audience, and whose 
every sentence obtains subdued approval. Lady 
Drusilla was very proud of him, and perfectly 
happy for the first time in her life. Her face was 
flushed and eager as she looked up at him, and he 
thought, as he glanced at her, that she was grow- 
ing handsomer. He sat down with a glowing sense 
of satisfaction. A faint memory of Lily’s haunt- 
ing eyes only awakened the thought, “I loved her, 


188 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


and have been forced to marry another woman. 
Why should she not marry, too, and be quite 
happy, after all ? ” This was a most comforting 
reflection, and gave an improved flavour to his 
final glass of champagne. 

The farewell leave-takings were somewhat for- 
midable for this double party, and it was well on in 
the afternoon when at last Bertha and Lord Dane 
drove away. They were to spend the first weeks 
of their honeymoon at a country house of Dane’s 
which was within a long drive Jack and Lady 
Drusilla were going to Paris, and left about an 
hour after the others to catch the evening train 
to town. Lady Drusilla looked almost handsome 
in her dark travelling dress and furs, and Jack was 
a perfect heau ideal of a bridegroom. The last 
lingering pang died out of his heart now that he 
was fully realising the comfort and security he had 
gained, and as he went out to the carriage he had 
as triumphant an air as the man has who marries 
the girl he loves. 

I really believe the dear boy is happy,” said 
Lady Agnes under her breath to the Squire, as 
they stood side by side in the hall, watching the 
carriage drive away. 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


189 


“I suppose so,” said the Squire; “indeed, I 
believe so. But I can’t understand it. The young 
men of this generation don’t seem to have any 
romance in them.” 

Lady Agnes looked anxiously round for Drusilla’s 
mother, lest the Squire’s blunt speech had been 
overheard. But it had not ; all was well ; all went 
well this wedding-day. 

The carriage bowled down the avenue and into 
the village street ; there was none too much time 
to catch the train, and the coachman knew he had 
to drive quickly. But before he had driven half 
down the street he reined the horses in, and went 
on slowly, and then in a few moments stopped 
altogether. 

“ What are we stopping for?” exclaimed Lady 
Drusilla. Then, peering out through the window, 
she said, “The street is full of people. Some- 
thing has happened— an accident, isn’t it ? ” 

Jack put the window down, and looked out. A 
moment later and he was standing in the street, his 
face blanched to a deadly whiteness. 

Something was being slowly carried along 
surrounded by a silent, awe-struck crowd. It was 
covered over with a dark cloak, but a long strand 


190 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


of golden hair had fallen out, and a dreadful cer- 
tainty knocked at the door of Jack’s heart. He 
sprang forward, and eagerly questioned the men 
who were nearest him. 

‘‘ What is it ? he said.” What has happened ? ” 

“It is Lily Barton,” was the answer. ‘‘She’s 
dead — drowned in the river by the bridge down 
there. How will the old people bear it? They 
don’t know yet.” 

But at that moment there was a terrible shriek, 
which silenced everyone. Mrs. Barton was un- 
easily looking for Lily, and coming out to the 
door for the fiftieth time since she had gone home, 
suddenly caught sight of the helpless burden and 
the strand of hair. The same dreadful certainty 
came to her that came to Jack. She rushed for- 
ward, and flung the cloak back from the dead 
girl’s face. Everyone stood still, silent before the 
mother’s grief. She, too, was silent, till, suddenly 
looking up, she caught sight of Jack’s white face 
close beside her. Quickly she caught his arm, and 
said, in a low, intense voice, “This, then, is what 
she was looking forward to when she told me she 
looked forward to to-day. She said it would be all 
over. I thought she meant the suspense. Fool 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


191 


that I was ever to lose sight of her ! ” Suddenly 
the poor woman burst into a harsh laugh. ‘‘ What 
an omen fpr your marriage, Mr. Jack, to cross a 
corpse in the road ! ” 

“Don’t! don’t say that I ” exclaimed another 
voice. Lady Drusilla had got out of her carriage, 
and was standing close to them. 

“ Go back to the carriage,” cried out Jack.. 
“ Quick, or we shall lose the train.” 

“We can’t catch it now,” said Lady Drusilla. 

“We must! we must!” was Jack’s answer; 
and he pushed her back to the carriage. She was 
terrified at his excited manner, and gave way. 

“It’s no use, sir, now,” said the coachman; “we 
can’t do it.” 

“Nonsense! ” cried Jack, and he sprang on to 
the box, and took the reins from the astonished 
man, who no more dared oppose him than Lady 
Drusilla. The easy-going, kindly young Squire 
was scarcely recognisable. If Lady Agnes had 
been there she would have been in terror, for the 
likeness, always in him, to her brother, who had 
shot himself, came out with ane xtraordinary vivid- 
ness. The people stood back when he whipped 
the horses. A moment later the carriage 


192 A DEBT OF HONOtTR. 

went swinging at a furious pace down the hill. 

All that was left of beautiful Lily Barton was 
carried into the house by this time, and her motlier 
was kneeling by her silent and tearless. When 
she heard the carriage go by, she laughed again as 
she had laughed in the road. It was awful to hear 
her ; and Roger Barton, who had been speechless 
with horror and grief, found the power to speak, 
at the sound, and cried out, “ Mother, don’t let it 
drive you mad ! ” 

She made him no answer, but knelt there rock- 
ing herself to and fro, without even a sob to break 
the horrible dryness of her grief. It had come 
with such dreadful suddenness that these two, 
always able to help each other hitherto, were 
stunned. There they remained, saying no word. 
The crowd that thronged the inn respected the 
awfulness of their grief, and left them alone. And 
alone they were ; to neither did it seem that any- 
thing or anyone was left now that their treasure 
was gone. 

Presently there was a fresh stir among the crowd, 
and a subdued murmur of intense excitement rose 
from them. And no wonder. For another help- 
less form was carried to the inn door, and this was 


A DEBT OP HONOUR. 


193 


none other than the young Squire himself. Mad- 
dened by his rough usage and reckless driving, the 
spirited horses had started at a furious pace, and 
the carriage had been overturned at the foot of the 
hill. Jack, who was standing, had been thrown 
off violently ; the others had escaped with but 
slight injury, and the men-servants carried the 
bridegroom back up the hill. Lady Drusilla, 
trembling with emotion, but quite quiet, followed 
them. One of the men went off for a doctor, and 
the other up to Falconer Hall. 

The Squire and Lady Agnes were bidding good- 
bye in the hall to some of the departing guests, 
when this man rushed in through the open hall 
door, and began to stammer out his tale, which 
made everyone stare blankly at each other. The 
Squire looked at him in amazement, and seemed 
not to credit what he said ; but Lady Agnes, 
waiting for no questioning, went straight out, and 
fled down the avenue to the village, running like 
a girl. She might have been a ghost, in the twi- 
light, in her pale grey dress. Her dreadful pre- 
sentiment had come true. 

“It has come ! It has come ! ” she kept repeating 
to herself. 


13 


194 


A DEBT OP HONOUR. 


At the inn door the people fell back before her. 
Many of them, who had known her all their lives, 
said afterwards that they did not recognise her at 
first, her face was so changed by terror. 

“ Where is he ? ” she said. “ Is he dead ? ” 

“ No ; no ; he’s not dead,” someone hastened to 
say to her ; ‘‘ he’s only shaken.” 

They made way for her, and let her get to Jack, 
who had been placed in a large chair, apparently 
unconscious, but breathing. Once assured of this. 
Lady Agnes thought of the other mother, and, 
turning round, said to those near her — 

“ What has happened to Lily Barton ? ” 

“ She is dead,’^ was the answer. ‘‘ She was found 
drowned, and it seems as if she must have done it 
herself.” 

Lady Agnes rose slowly from where she was 
kneeling by her boy, and said— 

‘‘ Where is Mrs. Barton ? ” 

She tried to get to the room in which the miser- 
able parents were shut in with their dead child, 
but before she could reach the door Lady Drusilla 
came to her, caught her arm, and forced her from 
among the people into a quiet corner. 

“Tell me,” she said, fixing her eyes on Lady 


A DEBT OF HONOUR, 195 

Agnes’s white face, “ what was there between those 
two ? I must know.” 

‘VLove ! ” answered Lady Agnes. “ They would 
have been married if I had not prevented it. I 
wish I had not now. Poor mother ! how, can I 
face her? But I must. Let me go, Drusilla.” 

Lady Drusilla let her go without any further 
effort. She stood very quietly for a few moments, 
and then went back to Jack. And when Lady 
Agnes came, weeping bitterly, out of the sad room 
she had entered, she found Lady Drusilla had taken 
her place by her husband. The doctor had arrived, 
and had sent everyone else away. Lady Drusilla 
was very calm, very attentive, very quiet. But 
even in the midst of her own deep distress Lady 
Agnes noticed that the light which had been in 
her face had died out of it. 

When Jack, with the aid of some strong reme- 
dies, became sensible, his first words were to express 
a wish to go on with the journey. Lady Drusilla 
saw him look round the room and shudder, and 
she guessed that it reminded him of Lily. The 
doctor offered no objection ; Jack had only been 
shaken and bruised, so far as could be ascertained. 
Lady Agnes did not try to hinder him ; she thought 


196 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


that it would be best for him to go, if possible. 
There was a night train which could be caught by 
a longer drive to a junction ; and so a carriage was 
sent for, and once more the start was made. Lady 
Drusilla made no sign when she said good-bye to 
her mother-in-law; she went away with lowered 
eyes and a very quiet manner. Lady Agnes, sick 
with anxiety and sorrow, went home with the 
Squire. It was useless for them or for anyone to 
attempt to approach the Bartons. They were in- 
accessible in their bitter pain, and seemed not to 
know when anyone was near them. 

And so this strange wedding-day, a medley of 
gaiety and grief, came to an end. 

* ^ ^ * * * * 

Jack and Lady Drusilla travelled for nearly six 
months before they came home again, instead of 
spending a mere six weeks* honeymoon abroad, as 
had been intended. When they returned, every- 
one found them much changed. Some emotional 
crisis had evidently been lived through. Their 
marriage was not at all what it had promised to be. 
The flush of pleasure in her new life had left Lady 
Drusilla before she had ever tasted it, and it 


A DEBT OF HONOUR. 


197 


appeared to have left her altogether. She had be- 
come a quiet, saddened woman, and her eapricious 
love of gaiety was gone. She took little or no in- 
terest in her new house, which she had furnished 
with so much eagerness ; she entertained very 
little; and was, indeed, contented with a quieter 
life than she had led before her marriage. But 
though her love for Jack had altered its character, 
like everything else about her, she clung to him 
and was only happy when with him. Jack appeared 
to reciprocate this feeling. They were always 
about together, and though no one would have 
thought of calling them a happy couple, they were 
looked upon as ‘‘ devoted.” And so they were. 

When Jack was nearly well. Lady Drusilla spoke 
out to him one night. They were at Venice, amid 
the most romantic surroundings, and some roused 
feeling within her made her speak. There had 
been no pretence of romance between them ; she 
had nursed and waited on him, and borne with his 
morose, melancholy humours — humours which sat 
strangely on him, but which had become a habit 
since his wedding-day. She told him that she 
knew his love-story ; that she knew what had al- 
tered him so ; that she had schooled herself to look 


198 A DEBT OF HONOUR. 

for no love from him. But could they not be 
friends? she asked him. And from that night 
they were fast friends. It was a relief to Jack to 
be able to speak of his dead love. But he never 
recovered the shock ; he never was the same again. 
The bright gaiety of his nature was clouded. Al- 
though a rich man, and quietly happy in his home 
life, Jack Falconer found that it had cost him dear 
to pay that debt of honour. To this hour he will 
wake at night with a sudden start of horror and 
despair, having seen again in his dreams Lily’s dead 
face. Never did he guess, till he saw her corpse 
on his wedding-day, how deeply he loved her. 

THE END. 


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